


Epic

by bubbysbub



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And a severe lack of logic, Bilbo as the moody pessimist, Crack, Durincest, Frightening mix of book and movie canon, M/M, Oddly Maudlin, So Serious It's Crack, Thorin is a chatty bastard with a new outlook on life, Time Travel, Unashamed Fix-it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2015-03-15
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:58:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 107,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bubbysbub/pseuds/bubbysbub
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The up-side of being unceremoniously shoved seventy-nine (approximately) years into his past, Bilbo mused, was that at least he got the chance to murder his stupid adorable husband before, and also because, he went and got himself killed. Or... something.</p><p>In which Bilbo is pretty sure this is all Elrond's fault but is determined to see the hallucination through, and Thorin is just confused.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on a prompt that I cannot find. If I find it, I will attach it to the next chapter.

Once upon a time (because it's a classic beginning to many a story, so why not?) Bilbo Baggins woke up three months before a tribe of dwarves was to arrive at his door approximately seventy-nine years ago.

Suffice to say, when he woke up, he was somewhat confused. And a little miffed, for he had told Elrond that the weed he had pulled from his magical pouch of miraculous healing doodads and whatsits was certainly not dandelion and that the tea made from said weed smelt oddly like smoked bacon and camphor, but the stuffy sod had made him drink it anyway and then sent him to bed like a child (just because Bilbo had thrown a carrot at his head and called him Madam Fussy. Honestly, his dearest friend could be such a sulk). And now he was hallucinating, confound that elf.

It took Bilbo four days to accept this new, completely impossible reality. He, somehow, was reliving his past. Accepting this took a whole day of talking to his parlour wall, an hour of being chased up and down Brandybuck Lane by a very upset Cotton lass (there was absolutely a very good reason he was hiding behind that hedgerow with Mrs Chubb's second favourite blouse, three turnips and a fishing net) some times spent curled up and rocking himself in the garden shed and an awful lot of time pacing his study adamantly proclaiming to the pretty glass figurine of a duck his da had named Macy that "This is not HAPPENING". Macy's only reply was a distinctly unimpressed stare over a bill full of pale pink glass fish. 

Four days. His ultimate assessment of the situation was that this was perhaps, maybe, possibly, conceivably, not a hallucination. Real then. And seventy-nine years (approximately) was gone without seemingly having happened at all, except in his head.

Bilbo went to bed. 

The next day or so was spent alternating between fits of explosive anger (later he would regret this- last time round his mother’s West Farthing dishes had survived an invasion of Dwarrows, Sackville-Bagginses and that one incident post-Frodo adoption with the piglet and that barrel of Noakes’ Finest That We Do Not Speak Of. Belladonna would have tanned his hide over his temper-tantrum) and broken sobbing into cold cups of liberally doctored tea. Bilbo felt entirely justified in this behaviour, however, as he felt that one Epic Adventure that was mostly a blur of exhaustion, running, mind-numbing fear and the greatest freedom and love he had ever known, followed by watching his husband of, oh, TWO MINUTES, die in his arms, capped off by eighty years (or seventy nine. Approximately) of pining and watching one's nephew-come-beloved-son walk off on his own Epic Adventure Of Exhaustion And Fear, and seeing him come back broken and a shade of the bright brilliant boy of before...

He had a lot of mourning to redo. So many regrets, and he was the only one to remember it all. So, much anger and tears to be indulged in, thankyou very much and the sign outside does, in fact, say 'No Visitors Please' and is not an invitation to be nosy Atho Bolger, and kindly get out of my roses and stop gawping through the window at the puffy Hobbit wailing in his kitchen.

Another day to finally hit the realisation of: oh. OH, oh, second chance! and the resulting panic and exhilaration and nearly wasting the chance by choking to death on his own smoke ring. 

That was followed by a few days of sitting quietly with endless cups of tea and his pipe, and with the imaginings of Gandalf's mild admonishments at his inaction whispering quietly through his head. But if was to do as he was planning, this would take a few days to consider. There was so much to do, to try, and he was oh, so little. One hundred and thirty years of experience and a refined cunning had not even prepared him for this and every five minutes of thinking left him feeling overwhelmed and entirely too tired for a Hobbit of his age- physically speaking. 

Eight days after something very strange happened to Bilbo Baggins and he woke up approximately seventy-nine years ago, he abandoned thinking and planning, as he found the decision making process to be too tricky a thing on a scale of this magnitude. Instead, he packed a bag, left a key with Hamfast and Bell Gamgee, and headed west out of the Shire in the cold light of dawn.

****

When Bilbo had first left the shire, approximately seventy-nine years ago but not, he got along with his past-future-husband about as well as a pony got along with a Warg.

A week of being the skittering, stuttering, overly-timid pony to Thorin's snarling, intimidating orc-mount, Bilbo had been thoroughly fed-up and had snarled back. The various expressions of startlement, confusion and frustration on the other's face had been surprisingly hilarious and oh so satisfying, and only spurred Bilbo on to being the most irritating, back-talking nuisance he could to Mr Thorin Stick-Up-My-Entirely-Too-Sexy-Arse Oakenshield. It had at least distracted him from the cold, the hard sleeping surfaces and the lack of enough meals for his poor Hobbitly tum-tum to feel entirely satisfied. His days eventually descended into struggles for victory in Epic Battles of Snark, since as time went on, Thorin seemed less and less able to just ignore him, and became more and more infuriated at his back chat. It was the most entertainment he'd had in a long time, and seemed to place him on a pedestal with certain members of the company, though, equally, others seemed to bear permanent expressions of outraged horror. The younguns at least had thought him the bravest creature to grace all of Arda for his cheek aimed at their god-like leader. And Bifur certainly seemed to spend most of his times sniggering and making low, incomprehensible comments to Gandalf, who took to riding a ways back with hat pulled low and a smug expression on his face. 

Things had actually come to a head in Rivendell. Barely a few hours into their stay in Rivendell, actually, the company huddled on a balcony connecting their allocated rooms, cooking up what they deemed a more 'edible' dinner. Bilbo already knew he found the leader of their merry little troop ridiculously attractive. Ridiculously attractive. Damn him. Especially when he was all riled up and bristling. Which may or may not be the impetus for half of his smartassery. There really was nothing sexier than Thorin with some fire in his eyes and an expression other than 'grim' on his face.

So, Bilbo may have been antagonising their leader again. And Fíli may have decided that the best thing for him to do while Bilbo was up in his Uncle's face having a nice little go at Thorin -disguised as polite concern for one of Thorin's latest decisions, of course- to the amusement of the assembled company, was to give him an encouraging pat on the back. An overenthusiastic pat that had been more like a shove, especially Bilbo being a much more slight creature than the big bricks that were dwarves. And so Bilbo had tripped. Forward. Right into the arms of his verbal opponent. And Bilbo's lips may have accidentally landed on, well. Lips. Thorin's. Thorin's lips. Much to Bilbo's complete and utter mortification. And delight. Because, by Aule, those lips were so soft and pliant and felt utterly amazing, even if it was completely accidental touching. And his chest was firm and muscular under his hands where he had tried to stop his forward pitch into the dwarf, and the big warm hands on his arms were gentle and strong, and he smelt so good...

Bilbo may have melted forward into the hold a little. Pushed his lips a touch more firmly to the ones against his. Spread his fingers wide on that chest and pet it a bit. Breathed his scent in and moaned a tad. Just for a moment. Until the utter mortification bit had kicked in and he had wrenched himself backwards with a squawk, spun himself around and kicked a gaping Fíli firmly in the shin, because now Thorin was going to murder him.

He'd expected a bellowing admonishment for daring to take liberties. What he'd gotten instead was one of those big capable hands grabbing his arm and dragging him from the room, the ragtag bunch of dwarves bellowing lewd suggestions and jeering in encouragement behind him as Thorin hustled him into a private room and slammed him against the wall, plastered himself against Bilbo's front and proceeded to devour his mouth like a starving hobbitling at a twelve course buffet.

Of course, Bilbo had responded favourably. If favourably meant collapsing into Thorin's hold with some truly pathetic wanton whimpers, and rutting onto his leg like a cheap three-copper whore. 

Thorin did not seem to mind.

From then on, their relationship had shifted only slightly, yet was absolutely nothing like before. Bilbo had continued to snark and antagonise at any opportunity, the only difference being that occasionally the response was amusement rather than the desire to wring a Hobbit neck, and later, after the evening meal had been consumed by fire-light and the camp settled, Thorin would haul him away into the dark for another truly inspiring snog session, his mouth taken wet and deep until he was a mewling mess of willing flesh. And then back to the camp for the night to sleep tucked into Thorin's side, his heat and gentle touch making the evenings not only endurable, but damn-near blissful.

Of course, things weren't perfect. They had managed to have a few spectacular fights, one right before that utter cluster-fuck that was traversing a dangerous mountain trail in the middle of a thunderstorm that turned into a battle between a few bizarrely massive Stone Giants. The words Thorin had spoken after hauling him up off the edge of the rock face had been a bit like a kick in the teeth, and Bilbo had been entirely prepared to leave and head back to Rivendell, though in hindsight, it had mostly been a little bit of a lovers’ tantrum, and he was half-waiting for Thorin to get up and come after him and damn-well apologise like a normal being, when his sword had glowed blue and he was falling. And then there was the whole debacle with Gollum in the caves and running and terror and fire and jumping at an orc with a tiny sword to defend the dwarf that he realised too late he was completely and totally in love with, and more terror as he worried that Thorin was dead and he could never tell him how he felt.

Apparently, though, Thorin felt exactly the same way, because the night spent at the base of the Carrock was one he would never forget. Whispered declarations of adoration, entwined limbs and the realisation of never being able to live without the feeling of this magnificent dwarf wanting him ever again.

The next few weeks had been amazing. No matter how terrible their circumstances were, they had each other, and the love between them just seemed to grow and grow, Bilbo hadn't even known he was capable of that depth of feeling before. The rest of the company embraced their relationship with enthusiasm and he had felt like he was part of their massive extended family, kin to these amazing Dwarrows himself, achieving a sense of belonging and rightness he hadn't even realised he felt a vague lack of in his life since his parents had departed. And then Thorin had stumbled out of a barrel and fished him out of a lake and asked him to be by his side forever, slipping a thong of leather over his head with one perfect bead on it, Thorin's mother's betrothal bead, a promise. He'd stupidly thought it would actually last for that 'forever'.

He'd screwed up with the Arkenstone. For a long time, he had told himself that what he had done was right for the circumstances, just not for him and Thorin, and it had haunted him for most of his life, the different choices he could have made. Whether it would have mattered. He'd told himself in the days after, over and over, that it was the gold sickness his Dwarves suffered from that had caused all that mess, but Bilbo had eventually had to accept that they were not the only ones affected. Why else would he have hidden that terrible, beautiful stone from his betrothed long before the Elves and Men had come? He hadn't been so far gone that he hadn't been able to part with it later for the good of everyone, but when he had first found it, placing it in his pocket, he had called it his share, his fourteenth. What he had earned with Trolls and Goblins and Giants and Spiders and Elvish prisons. 

Once it all began though, events seemed to just accelerate, spiralling out of his control and into terrible words spoken, war coming to the mountain, to his dwarves, tumbling towards an inevitable outcome that Bilbo was helpless to prevent. In the end, there was nothing left to do but exchange sobbed apologies and hasty wedding vows before it was too late. But he had never allowed himself to forget a single moment with his dwarf, with his family, and somehow, despite all he had lost, he had pulled himself together and lived on. Approximately seventy-nine years of quiet pining while getting on with things, always almost reaching for a presence that wasn't there, but refusing to be so weak willed and allow himself to fade. Thorin has asked him not to. No matter how much he had pleaded to follow, Thorin had made him promise not to, a gasped out request with bloodied smile.

"I think you still have a few adventures left in you. Fill this life up for us, with tall tales to tell me when we meet again. I'll always be waiting for you, my heart."

It had been a struggle at first, but he'd done as his beloved asked. He'd lived for him, kept going for as long as he could, lived and experienced on behalf of his poor departed husband, and for the dwarves left behind, and then for Frodo. He'd lived and had a fairly good life, all said and done. But his end had been coming, and Bilbo had been looking forward to finally reuniting with Thorin, and relating all those experiences, of finally finding his peace. That chance had been stolen. Here he was, approximately seventy-nine years ago, and trying to protect the dwarf he loved all over again. And as far as he knew, no chance now of ever being reunited in the Great Halls of Mahal with the husband who loved him. 

****

Sixty-seven days after leaving the Shire this time, Bilbo stumbled off the little hinny he had named Thistle -on account of his prickly disposition- handed the reins to the youngest Rumble lad (gaping and stuttering at his appearance the whole time, and there, for a second time, went Bilbo's reputation and the respectable name of Baggins), as well as a few coins to unload the pack-donkey he had led back and to bring the load to Bag End, before staggering up the hill, cutting through the Proudfoot's private orchard to tumble over the rail into the Gamgee's back yard and through to his own, clumsily stomping through his nasturtiums and half breaking down his back door in desperation to be home, and on the way to clean, fed and sleeping.

In the bathroom he stripped to his skin while chomping on a stolen Proudfoot plum and grimly examined his shoulder in the mirror as the bath filled. Three of the gashes were clean cuts and healing well, but the fourth was jagged and wide and a little too red- it would surely scar. Sighing, he tipped a few dashes from a jar beneath the sink into his bath and slid in, hissing at the sting in the bruises and scrapes covering most of his body. His damn husband wouldn't even appreciate his efforts, not remembering any of it. But it was worth it. Sighing at the feel of finally being warm and clean, he propped his head on a few towels so he wouldn't drown, and settled in for a nap while the healing herbs worked their magic.

When he managed to shuffle from his home a few days later -those days mostly spent sleeping and blindly foraging for anything edible in his pantry before treating injuries and stumbling back to bed- still hobbling as the bruising caught up with him, he wandered into the market, bought eight of Mrs Chubb's best meat pies (apologising profusely about the mix-up with her blouse and distracting her with enquiries of his cousin Falco) a flagon of mead and a large basket of berries and ambled home again, sitting himself down to work his way through the pile of bounty and a new stash of pipeweed and contemplate his next move.

He knew that going off as he had would have consequences. He could have left things be, followed his beloved moronic husband on their foolhardy quest a second time, using what he knew to avoid the worst of it, and trusting in the fact that they had all survived the journey the last time. But he hadn't done that, had he, and it was too late to go back now. Perhaps the process of living again, living beyond what he should, and hadn't yet done, had made him as mad as the folk of the Shire had (and would soon) called him. 'Mad Baggins is at it again!' Bilbo chuckled to himself. 

Mad though he may be, it had to be done. Oh, he was so foolish. Foolish and impulsive and selfish. Yes, he was ultimately a selfish being, Bilbo knew that. He had known that for most of his life, it just was what it was. He was a Hobbit, for goodness sake, and they all tended towards a degree of selfishness. But he was also a Baggins and most importantly, a Took, with roots firmly of the old Fallohides. 'Free and wild are those of the Fallohide', his mother used to sing. Stubborn and reckless were more like it. His dear old ma, a Took to the core, she was the definition of the free and wild variety of their descendants. She, perhaps, might agree with what he had done. Maybe even be proud of him. Though, on second thought, she was a selfish being herself. Pa, on the other hand, was the most unselfish being in the world, but he shared a similar selfishness in regards to family, and it was quite possible they may heartily disapprove of what he had sacrificed. "Remember that your family is your treasure, my dear son. Hoard and guard them as a dragon would a pile of gold, jealously and miserly, for they are your joy and your inspiration and no greater wealth will you know in this life." 

Bilbo did truly want to be selfish, use everything within his power to see things through again, allow the hardships they had encountered the first time to force them into the tightknit family unit they had become, use the knowledge he had to keep his Durin men alive, and have the life he jolly well deserved after all that mad adventuring and involving himself with all the woes of the world, the life he could have with his family, his love. But it was too risky, leaving things as they were, a wrong step here or there made in the best of intentions and the whole lot would fall apart on him and he could lose one of his precious thirteen dwarves, lose them all, lose a future for their people. 

Lose the ring. Lose all of Arda to Evil.

He had to sacrifice. He had to plan. The things that might have been, that may have made him worthy in the eyes of his dwarves, of his dear husband, they had to be sacrificed for the simple matter of keeping them safe. So it had to be, so it was done. How things went now, well, the knowledge of before had been sacrificed as well, with what he had changed. A consequence he hoped he could live with. 

There was Frodo to think of, too. He wasn't quite sure what he was doing in regard to that whole mess. His cousin, 'nephew' as he called him, yet in his heart, his dearest boy that was as near to a son as any could be, beside the two younger Durins lost on a bloody battlefield. He wanted, he so desperately wanted to have Frodo for his own again, to be that selfish, but the memories of the little boy that cried for his mam in the night for weeks on end were still as fresh as the nights they occurred, the memory of wishing so hard to heal the heartbreak in the tiny fauntling that was becoming so dear to him, and he just couldn't bring himself to knowingly allow that future to occur. Though Frodo, in his care, had grown to be fine young man, the finest, really, when you considered all that he had been through, -or would, or, really, wouldn't, if Bilbo had any say in the matter- a side of Bilbo cried out to protect his precious boy from any harm, to keep him safe and happy. Safe and happy meant tucked away in a hobbit hole near the Bridge of Stonebows with his parents who loved him. Far away from cursed magic rings and orcs and wars and quests to save all of Arda from evil. Away from Bilbo. 

But that brought out the damnable thorny problem of predestination. What was it that Frodo had once told him that Gandalf had said? "I can put it no plainer than by saying that Bilbo was meant to find the Ring, and not by its maker. In which case you were meant to have it. And that may be an encouraging thought." Bilbo was fated to find the ring – and was perhaps equally fated to pass it on to Frodo. No matter how often he wrestled with the idea, Bilbo singularly failed to find it ‘encouraging’. Terrifying maybe, petrifying, absolutely horrifying – but encouraging? Not so much. There was absolutely no WAY that Bilbo was prepared to watch Frodo have the very life and soul drained from him before he had the chance to live if he had any say in the matter. What was he supposed to do, hang onto the thing for another sixty years before handing it over with a 'good luck with that'? Fat chance. His little Hobbitling deserved better than that.

Though, Bilbo really should see about having a modest Smial built, far away from the Hole that Primula and Drogo would eventually inhabit after their marriage, on the Bucklands right near the Brandybuck. Perhaps some land of his could be found on the other side of Hobbiton, closer to the White Downs, a present from cousin Bilbo. Far away from the river and the water, and river life that naturally leant towards the temptation to build a boat that perhaps would spark a tendency towards weekly romantic boating picnics that could lead to Hobbits falling in the curse'd river and drowning and leaving their poor little youngling to be orphaned and sent to live with his mad cousin that could afford to keep him and would adore him as a son, so much so that he would eventually inherit an evil ring that would try to destroy his soul. A nice safe cosy Hobbit Hole towards the Downs, or further south into Tookland. Since he was a respectable member of the Baggins clan and all, and it was his sworn duty to be a responsible Hobbit and care for all members of his family, and Drogo was, or would be, one of his favourite cousins, after all, Prim too, for all that she was a blasted Brandybuck. Besides, Frodo would need his parents if Bilbo was to stay in Erebor with the dwarves, and especially if Thorin...

Bilbo started, fumbling his pipe and spilling ash and half burnt weed on his waistcoat. He brushed it away with trembling hands and took a few shaky breaths. 

Thorin.

Bugger it. He had been avoiding thinking that name for weeks. Ever since the hours he had spent lying face down on his foyer floor, ignoring concerned neighbours and weeping and cursing and recalling with bitter clarity every moment, of wedding vows crossing bloodied smiling lips, weakly grasping fingers and pained eyes, regretful and wondering and then empty. His first married kiss pressed to flesh that did not feel or respond, his husband's soul already departed. Of laying his husband and his husband's sister sons -his dearest younglings!- to rest deep in the mountain, Dain of the Iron Hills and newly crowned king of Erebor leading the songs of mourning, deep dirges of death that echoed around the cavernous walls of the cold mountain, while the company crowded around him in silent support, helpless to ease his pain while they themselves mourned. Desolately weeping and barely able to stand on his shaky legs as he laid the Arkenstone on his husband’s chest before they sealed him away in the rock for the rest of time

A tear falling onto his arm jolted Bilbo out of belly-churning despair, and he gave himself a mental kick up the backside, loosening the painfully tight grip on his pipe and forcing his body to stop shaking. If this was truly a second chance, then there was no use crying. Not this time. He would change that; he would change all of it. There would be no mourning in the halls of the lonely mountain this time, only raucous feasts of victory and merry-making for the reclamation of home. Bilbo would see it done if it killed him. Even if this time, there would be no love for him from a beautiful majestic Dwarven king and all he was left with was a broken heart. Sacrifices had to be made.

Calling himself a maudlin fool with delusions of grandeur, Bilbo hauled himself to his feet and forced himself inside. He had a troll hoard to sort and he still had to find somewhere safe to hide that thrice-damned ring... 

****

Not too far west of Bilbo at that very moment, deep in the caverns of Ered Luin, Thorin Oakenshield bolted upright out of sleep, still gasping on his last breath and groping for the warm touch of his beloved, almost comically astonished at his surroundings. "This was not what I was expecting of the Halls of Waiting," he murmured in confusion, and fell out of bed.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep forgetting to note that the amazing McShepletGirl (Beth!) is the reader that fixes all my whopping great mistakes (I don't think I shall ever live down Rivendale. Facepalm moment!) and since I tend to commit Gross Misuse of Apostrophes, her job is a biggun'. Thankyou, dear Beth!
> 
> Also, WARNING, this chapter has INCEST between the two gorgeous younger Durin boys. Nothing explicit, but it is discussed.

Thorin Oakenshield was what some would call 'perplexed'. Confused. Bewildered. Confudulated? Or even, going out of his _fucking mind_ trying to explain what in Durin's name was happening to him. Others may call it 'wandering about and scaring the _nat_ out of decent dwarves with his wild muttering'. Others being his sister and Dwalin. Unsupportive bastards. See how they like dying and waking up months in the past.

Though he could see why they would be worried. Apparently, they didn't remember any of it. NONE of it. Here he was, months lost in an instant, just hours ago dead, and now back where he began, making ready to go trekking across all of Eriador to fight and wade through all manner of creatures, reclaim his massive pile of poisonous gold, and finally go completely treasure-crazy and try to kill his love, his One, his precious halfling. And die, mustn't forget the dying part! Or the deathbed wedding. Oh, thanks be to the Makers that Bilbo wouldn't remember any of before, or he would _murder_ Thorin for that. Married and widowed in less time than it would take to have tea.

And he was back to being confused again. How was this even possible? Was he still crazy? Mad from gold and pretty gems sparkling in the light of mountain fire? This all felt real. The smell of the Blue Mountains- if dank was a smell, that would be the scent of this mountain thanks to the odd, still, pools of old ocean water deep into the mountains- the snide remarks in concert from two of the snarkiest creatures he knew and adored in the corner, the feel of the stone beneath his feet and the ever resonating humm of rightness that came from being a dwarf beneath a mountain; it all felt so real.

Thorin sighed deeply, bracing his elbows on his knees and burying his head in his hands, ignoring the watchful silence from across the room. He knew he was worrying them. He had been completely floored at waking in his chambers within Ered Luin moments after dying (and yes, he was still trying to get a handle on the whole 'I died' thing) and had barely taken the time to mechanically pull on a clean tunic and his boots before he had come out to find his sister puttering about while casually flirting with a lounging Dwalin in the tiny receiving room he shared with Dis. Such a familiar sight, something he had come into from his bedchamber many a morning, but normally not accosting his sister so as he had done. He must have seemed a little mad, what with his harsh demands to know how his darling baby sister Dis had died, for surely if he was dead (DEAD!), then he was in the afterlife and his sister too, if she was there. It had taken a few good hard whacks and shrieks of indignation before Dis realised that her brother was quite serious in his worry and rather odd questions, and then she had decided that Thorin had suffered a particularly bad dream, petting him and sitting him in a chair with a cup of tea, rubbing his back until he snarled at her and she retreated across the room to whisper worriedly with Dwalin. Treating him as if he was as much a child as Fíli and Kíli...

Oh, his precious sister sons. He moaned aloud in misery as he remembered their fate. The company had tried to lie to him at first when he was brought barely conscious from the field and put in a sick bed, vague references to post-battle duties that might keep them from visiting their dying uncle, but it hadn't taken long for him to confirm what he had seen and feared, that his boys had fallen, trying to get to him, trying to protect him. His _boys_. His bright, wicked boys, snuffed out for his pride and foolishness. He realised he was hyperventilating when he felt Dis anxiously rubbing his back, and even Dwalin was hovering now.

Thorin wasn't quite sure what this was, wasn't sure if he was ready to believe what was happening, that he had a second chance at life. He was clearly NOT dead. The rapidly forming bruises inflicted by his loving sister were proof of that much at least. The only reasonable explanation was that a miracle had occured and he had been given the gift of another try. A test perhaps? No matter the reason, the possibilities were already flashing fast and furious through his mind. A chance to lay claim to both the gold and his Hobbit – and to keep them both. Hopefully without going completely mad and starting a war. But what about his lads? The two beautiful foolhardy boys who threw their lives away….what if there was no second chance for them?

"Where are the boys?" he asked abruptly. Dis slid into a seat next to him and he reached blindly for her with one hand while rubbing at his face with the other. He felt off-kilter, off balance and like he might faint at any moment, just fall straight down like his dearest had that first time he had met him, Bofur teasing him about death-by-dragon-fire. This time he would catch him, Thorin resolved. Oh dear, he still had to go meet his husband, and this time he would have to make a better impression than insulting, unimpressed jackass.

"No doubt they're down making Royal pains of the themselves in one of the training yards, annoying the Masters and upsetting the apprentices," Dis answered him, tone quiet and worried. He turned towards her, looking at her properly for the first time since he had madly stalked into the room. His baby sister. He had missed her. He never got to introduce his Bilbo to her. He would have liked Dis, Thorin hoped. They would probably have teamed up together and tormented Thorin’s very life. She was so lovely, just like their mother, had been such a comfort to him every day since the they had fled the Lonely Mountain. He had failed her so badly this time.

"I'm so sorry, Sister," he swore sincerely, watching the skin between her eyes divet as she tried to comprehend a reality that included her unyielding stubborn arse of a brother actually apologising to her- had that even happened before? No doubt she was assuming it was for worrying her with his behaviour of the morning, and it would be easy to let her to believe it so, but even though he knew he couldn't just go blurting out what he was truly sorry for -he had gotten her precious sons _killed_ \- lest he sound crazier than he already did, he just couldn't leave it as is, needing for her to absolve himself in some way to her.

"I honour the memory of your departed husband. He was a good dwarf, an excellent mate to you, a fine father, and he saved my life with his own. But..." He hesitated, seeing confusion and worry and when had Balin arrived to be standing next to his brother and frowning so? Perhaps this was all a strange dream. "I am such a selfish being. I love you. You are my precious baby sister. But your sons.." He shook his head, not seeing her face blanch.

"Long now have I ceased to call Fíli and Kíli my sister-sons in my mind. They have been my own sons in my heart, heirs not just by blood and political need, but in love and covetousness. I know they are your treasures. And yet I covet them for myself. My own sons.

"I would have no harm come to them as long as there is breath in my body. Even seeing them as my own treasures, my urge to keep my sons safe, I have still allowed them to pledge themselves to this quest. Knowing that they will get themselves killed, knowing what that will do to you, to me. How can you even look at me for that betrayal I wonder?"

Dis stared at him, and he could tell that he had blindsided her so much that she really did not know what to think of his words. He took a breath, shaking his head again as he stared at the fireplace.

"I am selfish. I want them near me, yet, I do not want to risk them. I cannot allow them to come to Erebor. They will stay here with you."

The room was silent for a moment more before Dwalin made a small noise of shock? Disagreement? Whatever it was, it prompted Balin to jerk forward oddly to sit with the royal siblings, Thorin still clutching Dis' hand in his own, no longer able to meet his sisters gaze. 

"I'd say good morning, but..." Balin trailed off, a questioning tone to his voice as he studied Thorin's face carefully. He shook his head, and must have decided against subtlety. "What's gotten into you, then?"

Thorin stayed silent, bowing his head again to stare at the floor. Really, he had no answer for his oldest friend, though he was so tempted to tell Balin exactly what had happened just to have the fun of watching the confusion on his face. The urge to do so made him frown. When he was younger, he and Dwalin would do their best to blurt out various 'shockers' at the older dwarf to see if they could move his face to something other than 'serenely confident', it had become a game between the three of them, something that Thorin had sometimes done just to see an expression of fond amusement directed at him. When had he lost that? When had he become so dour, distanced himself so far from his kin that he did not even joke with them anymore?

"Thorin?"

He snapped his head up from where he had been staring off to the side, the other three in the room watching him in aprehension. Balin shifted restlessly, mouth opening and shutting a few times before he raised his gaze to his. Thorin's could not stand to meet his eyes though, and dropped his own back to his hand still entwined with Dis'.

"The decision on whether to take Fíli and Kíli on the quest to our homeland is not really yours to make," Balin finally said, waiting for Thorin to meet his gaze, sighing when he would not. "They are both fine fighters, and were elected by the council to represent the warrior and noble classes on the trek. Fíli is representing the Fine Crafts Guild and Kíli has been approved as a suitable representative of the Gemologists. The whole company has been chosen carefully from those willing, all fine families to represent as many as the Guilds and classes as we can spare able dwarves. We're all pulling double duty. The contracts have been signed, we are set to all gather in the low lands in three weeks, and only yesterday you seemed proud to have the two lads as part of our group...?" He trailed off, the last statement another very unsubtle demand to know what had gotten into the dwarf that Balin already called King, though they had no real mountain for him to be King of. Just barely-stable caverns they inhabited in between treks to find work and earn enough to support their kin. 

As much as some had come to see this as their way now, and truly, it was not such a hard life that there was not comfort and happiness at times from it, but for one with the memory of prosperity and abundance, this was no life for his people. That had been his original reason for trekking across the lands to their long-lost mountain, a better future of plenty for all dwarves that looked to him for guidance. Or, at least, that was what he had told himself. He had ignored the constant fury and fire for vengeance that had burned and lashed in his gut, shame and guilt and self-hatred ever spurring him on to prove that he could be more than a wandering smith, a failure to a whole race of people. He was thier King by right and responsibility, and he could prove it through action as well, be the king his people deserved. His little hobbit had patiently calmed the roiling emotions within him, slowly but firmly worming his way into Thorin's heart and bringing him a peace he had not felt since he was a lad. Thorin had resisted such peace with the belief that he was unworthy, and that resistance to letting go and letting himself have contentment had allowed madness to take him once in the halls of his ancestors, surrounded by wealth. With a clearer mind now, clarity of love and loss thanks to his fierce little husband, could he truly justify the risk of the quest again in light of the life their people had made for themselves?

"I cannot protect them," he finally whispered harshly, his clenched fist hitting the arm of his chair as grief slammed through him full force. It was easy for them, so easy to look forward and see only hope. He was just hours from the time of finding out his boys were slaughtered, gone, no more of their light gracing the world. He had just known that hours ago, and hadn't been able to properly mourn, seeing as he himself was dying and he thought he would be reunited with them when he himself passed, too busy mourning all that he had lost in regards to his Beloved. And he had been reunited with them now, in a way, but it was hard to see them as anything but fated to die at this point, and he couldn't seem to stop the shaking at the thought of that to come. He had to protect them, lock them away and keep them safe, leave his darling sister something in this world to love, and selfish again, a legacy of his own.

Balin sighed.

"You don't have to protect them, they're full grown now and can look after themselves. Even Dwalin thinks they are ready for this, and you know how he is."

Dwalin grunted in a way that managed to convey both irritation at the perceived insult as well as begrudging admission. "Aye, I s'pose they're ready." He shifted and huffed, and kicked Thorin in the shin until he looked at him. "There's few better with twin short blades than Fíli and those ridged butcher cleavers you helped him make are bloody brutal. He's gotten quite good with his throwing knives, not too bad with an axe, though he can't wield a hammer for shit. Smart, knows when he can win a fight and when to quit. Can't quite say the same for the younger, though Fíli keeps him in line." He let out a heavy breath and scowled a little. "And you know I ain't too fond of the bow, but Kíli is the best there is, no mistake, he could match one of those damnable elves in skill. He's fast too, very light on his feet. Not bad at all with that long blade of his and decent with an axe, but his nimble feet serve him well. There's not many in the arena that can beat either of them in a fair fight, and even fewer if they're together, and you know the two prefer to fight dirty. They're both quick thinkers and can improvise when the need rises."

He leant forward then, nudging Thorin's boot with his own and meeting his gaze squarely. 

"You know the brats drive me crazy, but I love 'em like they were my own as well and there ain't any way I'd let them go with us if I didn't think they were ready." He let himself sag back then, shifting with a frown. "Fíli and Kíli have signed their contracts, there's no way you can stop them from coming now."

The four of them sat in silence for a while, Thorin turning his attention back to the fireplace, cold through and through despite the healthy flames. What had been done... this was a curse. Surely, this was punishment for his unnatural greed, for failing his people. Penance perhaps, a chance to make amends by doing things properly. Would he have to lose his boys again? Would he fail his sister and his dearest friends, fail his Company and his entire people a second time? Fail the little creature that held his heart in his delicate hands, break his beloved's heart once more?

This was so difficult, just working out how he should feel right now. On the one hand, despite the end that came for his sons and himself, he couldn't help but mourn all that was lost. The shared past between himself and his burglar, he could never have that back. He carried it, but Bilbo would never know it. And that hurt. It pained him like a physical wound to know that his husband would never remember that first ridiculous kiss, the post near-death adrenelin-fueled confession of the depth of their feelings to each other, the joy of his proposal- soaked through and cold and with nothing but literally the clothes on their back and still one of the most amazing moments of his life. Their wedding vows, as anguished as they had been, still heartfelt and pure. His sister-sons could never tease him about how they had been responsible for joining them in the first place, what with their antics. His entire company, his family, damn it, they would not remember all the things that had brought them together the first time, the bonds of hardship and struggle. For all that he may gain with this second chance, he had lost so much.

The only consolation was what he had to gain from all of this. He would save his boys. He would see them live and be Kings of their rightful homeland, even if he had to lose his life all over again to do so. They could be trusted to look after his Bilbo after, as well.

His Bilbo. Perhaps he could win him again. It would be painful, to see him, be so close to him, and not be able to reach out and tug the little Hobbit into his arms and possess that cheeky mouth any time he wanted. To not just fall into their old pattern of banter and affectionate wrangling with ease. To love so deeply and know that there was no reciprocated feelings from his halfling, that he was a stranger to his little love. And he wasn't even sure if it was fair to Bilbo to try and make him fall in love with Thorin all over again when his death may come at the end of their journey a second time. Was it even right to drag Bilbo along on this adventure again anyway? He could lead a long happy life if Thorin let him be this time. Leave him in the Shire, safe and content. As much as the thought left a throbbing gaping hole in his heart to think it, perhaps this was part of his penance, this curse. To let his love go.

No.

He was so damn selfish. He couldn't let his boys stay here, waste what time he may have left with them. He couldn't let his Bilbo go either. He wanted them all for himself. Damn him to the cursed pits of Morgoth but he would selfishly drag them all into this again.

He wasn't sure how long they sat there like that, the lot of them lost in silent introspection. Dis finally sighed, tugging Thorin's hand up to kiss his knuckles affectionately. 

"Since the moment my husband died, you have been father to my boys. I have always known that. I never told you that Kíli started to call you Adad when he was tiny, did I? I made him stop. It hurt at the time, but it was true. You're their Adad, the only one they remember. As for the quest..." She laughed then, and her smirk was the tiniest bit malicious.+

"Not so much fun being the parent of two brash head-strong boys, is it? Perhaps you have a bit more sympathy for Amad, now." She shrugged then, smile turned resigned. "You fear for them, want to lock them away forever to keep them safe. But you can't. You have to stand by helplessly and allow them to be their own people. Stand on their own fearless, witless, chaos creating feet. Mahal help us all." She stood and wandered through a doorway into the kitchen area, humming a little and tinkering with items from his food bins. Balin fumbled for his pipe and Dwalin held his own out for his brother to ready for him, still slumped with legs askew, morose glare firmly in place. 

Which of course, is when two terrors tumbled through the door, uncontrollable high-pitched snickers and giggles betraying the fact that they had been up to mischief again. Thorin froze in his seat, staring at the living proof that his boys were safe and sound. They didn't seem to notice the sombre mood, nudging each other in shared amusement as they plonked down at the table next to their uncle, shoving and mock-wrestling for a moment before they finally acknowledged the other dwarves in the room.

"Ho all," Kíli greeted with great exuberance. "What are we deliberating so seriously?"

"Convincing your uncle that the two of you should be allowed on the quest," Dwalin answered bluntly and without pause, not looking up from his intense study of his knuckle-dusters. 

Thorin's sister sons went dead still and silent in shock. 

"What?" Fíli asked faintly, swallowing against his suddenly dry throat.

"My brother has some doubts," Dis informed the two brusquely, breezing through to place platters of food down in front of the assembled Dwarrowmen. A sign of the seriousness of the business at hand, none of them looked to start eating.

Fíli and Kíli were passed shocked. Things had been going so well! And now, now there was only spiraling dread. What the hell had gone wrong so quickly when they were so sure everything had been proceeding smoothly?

Just yesterday, Uncle had been approving of Fíli and Kíli's devotion to the cause and shared enthusiasm to accompanying their kin and defending the honour of their people. Thorin had argued their case for weeks to the council himself, to their mam, even, and now he had doubts? The boys exchanged a look of consternation. They had thought in the beginning when the talk of this quest first came about that they would have to convince their Uncle before they could even think about anyone else, what with their reputation for being unreliable trouble-making snots, but they had been pleased to find that Thorin had only approval for their decision; he had seemed to take them seriously. They'd been so thrilled to have their Uncle's regard. It was a chance to prove themselves worthy of their mother's brother, to give him and mam their home back, and to show they were worthy of the positions in life that they had been born to, worthy future leaders of their people. 

When they had first decided to ask their Uncle to allow them to come, they had expected to face opposition. For all they had planned, they had always known that there was only one true way of proving their sincerity and devotion to this quest. They had been relieved when it hadn't been necessary, but now... Kíli nodded to his brother, face pale -they had hoped it wouldn't come to this- and Fíli took a deep breath and stood, Kíli shakily rising beside him, making their way around the table to his Uncle, trembling a little under the odd stare his King was giving them.

"We know that we don't have the best track record, Uncle, but," Fíli faltered a little, only steadying when he felt his brother's palm, warm and reassuring on his back, even though he knew Kíli was feeling as he was. Thorin's approval was _everything_. The idea that he doubted them... He backed up and knelt, Kíli kneeling with him.

"In the presence of witnesses: by the will of Mahal, the honour of our fallen kin and by the memory and glory of our ancestors, we swear Fíli, son of Flai, and Kíli, son of Flai, to our liege Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, to fight with every breath drawn from this moment onward, to uphold the dignity of the name and heritage of Durin, whether it brings us low or fates us death. Hear our vow: may we be struck down by your hand and cast from the Halls of the After should we prove false, these two dwarves will not bring shame to you. So do we swear."

"So do we swear," KiIi echoed, both falling silent, eyes fixed at the King's feet, waiting for the acceptance of their vow, straining not to fidget under the heavy weight of their Uncle's stare.

"Shame...me?" Thorin finally asked, voice strangled, and both boys dared to peer up, taking in the view of those assembled. Their mother was standing behind their uncle, hand clutched to her chest, face wrought in horror. Dwalin and Balin were frozen in shock and disbelief, and Uncle... Uncle seemed blank. There was an odd glint to his eyes, but his face stayed blank, and the boys shifted uncomfortably. 

"Yes?" Kíli answered hesitantly. It was a proper vow. It was supposed to have a proper response. Did he think them not serious? Fíli nudged him. He wasn't supposed to speak until Uncle had accepted or rejected them.

Their uncle's chair made a shrieking noise as he pushed it back and stood abruptly, taking two steps forward to stand directly in front of them. 

"Get up," he demanded quietly. Fíli exchanged a worried glance with Kíli before doing as told. Was their vow not sincere enough? Was he rejecting them? 

"Shame me?" he asked again, gaze intent, and Fíli could only nod. "How could-" Uncle's voice broke off and he shook his head in disbelief, eyes roaming wildly over them both. "That is just... _Look_ at you," he exclaimed.

Thorin saw the flinch that both of them made at that, hands tugging on rumpled clothing and brushing at imagined dirt, Kíli's eyes averting as he briefly touched a hand to his almost bare chin. _Mahal_ , they did, they thought him ashamed of them. 

He grabbed each by the scruff and dragged them to him, bracing their foreheads against his own. His foolish boys! 

"Don't you ever, ever, _ever_ offer to sacrifice your own lives for me, or for the foolish idea of preserving my honour. You dolts! How can I possibly be shamed by two of the greatest sons to come of our line? You are the living promise of a bright future for our people, and I cannot even begin to express the pride I feel _every single time_ I _look_ at the two of you. Shame me? The only shame that could be wrought is mine upon you! You stupid boys! My two idiots!"

Both of his nephews were clutching at him with bewildered expressions by the end of his impassioned rant, and Kíli moved to bury his face in Thorin's neck. 

"Really?" Fíli asked weakly. Thorin shook him by the neck, smiling.

"My boys."

"So, you're not upset with us?" Kíli mumbled into Thorin's tunic.

"No, not in the slightest."

"Then why can't we come?" Fíli asked.

"Yes, why can't they come then?" Balin interjected suddenly. Thorin shuffled around, dragging his boys with him. He didn't think he could let them go anytime soon. He sighed. He really couldn't let them out of his sight. Knowing them, they'd tag along behind him and get eaten by the Trolls before Thorin could prevent it. And the way the others were looking at him, they knew it too. He sighed.

"Fine, they're coming," he answered, pausing when Kíli lifted his head and whooped, face lighting up. And hell, if he was going to be that selfish, at least he could give them a little something to ease them somehow. He had just the thing.

"You can come. With a few conditions." The boys quieted again. He made himself loosen his grip on them, briefly cupping each of their faces with his palms in open affection before herding them back into their chairs. He was feeling kind of giddy at the moment, and throwing good sense to the wind, by the look of it. May as well take care of a few things that he had regretted in the end.

"Conditions?" Fíli asked in trepidation as Thorin helped himself to food, dragging his sister down to sit beside him. She glared at him half-heartedly. She was going to kill him if there were any more shocks to her system today. 

Well, at least he wouldn't have to trek all the way to Erebor to meet his end this time.

"Yes, conditions. Firstly, you see your father's family about them claiming Kíli as their son and separating him from our direct line."

Dwalin choked on a mouthful of bread and Dis' teacup went flying on to the floor to smash into tiny pieces when she jerked violently.

"What?" Balin half-shrieked. 

This second-time-around world was absolutely the strangest thing. Thorin had never heard his oldest friend make _that_ noise before. They really should start making bets over their 'shock challenge' again. He could probably score Dwalin's favourite knife with what he knew now.

"Wh-why-?" Kíli gasped, hand desperately grasping for his brother, and Fíli was half out of his chair grasping back.

"You'll need to if you want things to be taken seriously when you make it official," Thorin stated firmly, giving Fíli a meaningful look. If anything, this just made the boys appear even more faint, Kíli's face a sickly white. The silence in the room was _deafening_.

"You didn't think you boys were being subtle, did you?"

In actual fact, the boys _had_ been very discreet. So much so that none of the Company, nobody before their quest, had any clue as to the true nature of their relationship until the journey from Laketown to the Lonely Mountain. All except Bilbo, and the question Thorin has just asked had been Bilbo's exact words to the two when it was revealed that he had known since they had left the Shire, the words that had clued the rest of The Company in on the secret and set most of them to sputtering. He could still vividly remember the look of amused confusion on Bilbo's face when he realised that nobody else had known, and that they weren't supposed to know. How it had been so obvious to his husband he didn't know.

"Wait, what?" Dwalin gasped, finally having dislodged the morsel from his throat. Balin blindly pushed the water pitcher to him, muttering under his breath and mopping at his brow with his own beard. Dis was frozen again, and Thorin took the opportunity to let them recover while he ate through a plate of cold cut meat. He knew he shouldn't be having so much fun with this, especially with the still very present 'what the hell is going on' feeling of persistent doom lingering. Oddly enough, though, this was hilariously entertaining. 

"I would prefer you wait until Erebor is restored for a full ceremony, but I won't begrudge you full rights myself if you wish it. Your choice, but you will be making it official. And keep in mind that your dearest mother here will murder you both if she doesn't get to plan the ceremony." The boys both swiveled their wide eyes to their mother before nodding mutely. They knew the sort of wrath that would be brought down upon their heads if their mother didn't have full rights to the bonding.

"My next condition, is that you choose a suitable dwarf maid willing to bear you legitimate heirs. You may choose a bonded couple of good standing, if you want, as I know that your reluctance to take wives is because your affections rest solely with each other and you wished to spare any dwarrow lasses pain from the lack of attention. That aside though, your mother and I still want grandchildren, and you'll need heirs yourselves. I'm sure with the help of each other, you can bare the burden of spilling in a lass for as long as it takes to bring about fruit." He leaned forward and glared at them then. "I mean it. I want grandbabies."

Kíli made a strangled noise in the back of his throat and fell off his chair and Thorin grunted as his sister's hand finally made firm contact with the back of his head.

"Are you saying what I think you are saying?" she demanded, eyes more than a little wild. Thorin may just have to consider giving up his second ever apology to her in a minute. Though there was the possibility that may finish the job and make her heart give out from shock. She jerked when Fíli cleared his throat and sat straight in his chair, hauling Kíli one-handed back up onto his lap.

"Er, Mum?" Dis looked to Fíli, but he kept his eyes firmly on the table. "I, um. That is to say... For a long time now... Sometimes-! It's just."

"Fíli!" Dis demanded and Fíli gulped, words tumbling out in a rush.

"Kíli's my One. I've known since the very first time I laid eyes on him, when he was just a babe freshly born. I love him more than anything in this world, and I can't live without him by my side." He stopped and looked up at her through his eyelashes. "Is that okay?"

"Mam?" Kíli asked, hands fisting tightly in Fíli's blond locks, when Dis still hadn't done anything but stare at them blankly for several minutes. She blinked a few times, mouth opening and shutting again with a click.

"I'm trying to figure out how I did not know this until now when it is so obviously true that my missing it seems almost comically ridiculous."

"Aye," Balin agreed faintly. "Brother, lend me your flask." 

Dwalin yanked a battered silver pocket jug out of his coat pocket and took a long draw, handing it blindly to his brother, glaring fiercely at the two young brothers in a way Thorin knew was mostly confused.

"So the two of you have been carryin' on together?"

"Nothing improper!" Kíli yelped, and Thorin snorted. Both boys reddened and Thorin really couldn't resist, he just couldn't. He still remembered a too-awkward conversation that had left him blushing for days, whicle Bilbo spent a lot of time snickering at him. This was too damn amusing, and after his horrible morning so far... payback would make him feel better. 

"They mean they've deluded themselves into thinking that they're being decorous as long as they haven't indulged in full penetration yet."

"Full?" Balin asked, looking faint. 

"Fingers don't really count," Kíli muttered, ears blazing vibrant red, and Thorin tried, but really, he couldn't leave that one be.

"What about tongues?" he asked, grinning behind his teacup as their blushes somehow deepened even further.

"Uncle!" Fíli objected weakly and Thorin couldn't resist an evil chuckle even as Kíli gave a very perplexed look. "How do you even know all this?" Kíli demanded, red turning to an almost purple colour from his Uncle's frank analysis of his sex life.

Thorin smirked at them, and the boys avoided his gaze. No doubt they thought he had caught them at something. Thank Mahal he hadn't, he doubted he would be able get those images out of his head once they were in there. He snickered at their shifty expression before straightening.

"Do you agree to my conditions so far?" They both nodded enthusiastically. 

"Good. Last condition. If the Company is to see combat on this venture, any engagement, no matter the size of the skirmish or the enemy we face, your primary focus is at all times to be protecting yourselves. You watch each other's backs and leave me to myself. I mean it, Kíli," seeing the obstinate expression passing his nephew’s face. "The two of you swear to me that you will put yourselves first. Swear it, and you may come to Erebor. Or you stay here with your mother until I send for you."

"Uncle-"

"I will have no argument with you on this! You have ten seconds to swear to me or I'll see your contracts terminated right now, Council be damned!" he declared, half rising from his seat. He got exactly what he was aiming for, both boys scrambling back onto one knee and rushing out sincere-ish sounding promises, and he stink-eyed them over emphatically folded arms a moment. He knew this was something that he would have to reinforce a few times before they took it seriously, but he hopefully had all the way to Erebor for that. Damned if he was going to see them fall for him again.

"Good." He sat down. "The last thing I ask of you is a favour, rather than a condition." He stopped then, not quite sure how to phrase it, frowning down at the table for a few moments. Finally he sighed, eyes darting to the boys and back down again. 

"There may be something that I require... protecting. If I ask, would you look after this... thing, for me? No questions asked, when I come to you and tell you it's time, you will protect it for me? Keep it safe and cherish it always? 'Till the end of your days, if I cannot?"

The whole table was staring at him. He knew he sounded uncharacteristically nervous with his strange plea, but, he had to ask. He needed the reassurance. If it came down to it, he needed to know that they would protect his most precious treasure. His One.

"Yes. Of course. Whatever you need, Uncle."

He nodded, relieved. "Good. You have two weeks. Sort things with Flai's kin and you can put your braids in before we depart. And don't forget to show your mother the beads you've not-so-secretly made for each other. Now scoot!"

The room was silent for a while after the boys scampered off holding hands and looking more than a little delighted, if slightly shell-shocked. Save for Balin's occasional slurp at what Thorin was pretty sure was now heavily spiked tea, they sat quietly, Thorin feeling a small measure of contentment for the first time since he had woken that morning. Perhaps things may work out for the better after all?

"You... are not the brother I knew just yesterday," Dis sighed. "Yet, you are more my brother today than you have been in over a century. What in Mahal's name, Thorin?"

He reached over to grasp her hand again, weaving their fingers together and studying them. They were once such soft hands, fine and mostly unburdened, calloused now after years of work. His beloved's hands would start out this soft. By the end of their journey, they would be calloused and hardened too. Odd, that such a thing would make him smile. He may be doomed, but perhaps there was hope now on the horizon for his people and the ones he loved.

Thorin pushed back from the table, gathering his external persona of serious leader. "I did not sleep well last night. I intend to rest for a short while. Is there anything urgent that needs my attention?" he asked the three still remaining at the table. When they all shakily shook their heads, he turned and left the table, headed back to his bed to perhaps laugh hysterically and pretend that he wasn't shaking like a leaf, the events of the last few hours crashing down upon him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter? Mostly food porn.
> 
> Now, anyone wants to nit-pick, beware. I have a small essay -well, rambling rant, really- on food availability. Don't make me dredge that up. Just go with it, lovelies.

Bilbo was cooking. Cooking with a fervour of the damned. 

He had very little time. Three months warning, and now he was _out of time_.

At first, when he realised that within a week, his home would once more be invaded by a pack of marauding ravenous dwarves intent on emptying his larders, he had decided very firmly that it would not be happening that way. His pantry would stay bare as a new fauntlet’s feet and perhaps the dwarrows would this time _behave_ themselves, being no food or ale or good Hobbit mead to make merry with and get them all excited and in the mood to destroy all his knick knacks. In this stupid, wildly careening turn of events, where there seemed to be so little he could control, this, this situation he could direct, an oh so tiny measure of comfort for his frayed nerves. So Bilbo had very deliberately not restocked his food stores, purchasing one or two items per day to help him get through whatever was still in his stocks, slowly dwindling his food stores down to the point that it looked as if he had already hosted the dwarves. His shelves were bare bare bare.

This gave him a lovely sense of grim satisfaction. Imagine their faces when they realised that this time, there was nothing to plunder. Ha!

The satisfaction had dwindled into a quiet sort of melancholy after Bilbo had realised that this particular prank would only be funny if the dwarves in question had remembered what had happened the last time they had arrived. The expressions on their faces would have been hilarious had this been a second visit within the same timeline. He could almost picture the looks of utter dismay, the betrayed 'Mr Boggins!' from Kíli, and Bofur's giggles, as he surely would have been the first to get it. What a fine joke to play on old friends.

Had this been a joke with his old friends, he would have had quite the feast tucked away for them, though. Because he loved them, and they appreciated a good prank, and after getting a hearty laugh out of them, he would have fed them 'till they groaned from the feel of far too much good food. They were his dwarves, dammit, and a fine meal was the least of what they deserved. 

A bare larder this time round would just be petty. And disheartening for his boys after their hard travel to reach his house and all of Gandalf's promises.

Oh, then came the panic. He had: No. Food.

Hobbits three lanes over could hear the despairing cry of _'Bugger!'_.

Off to the markets he flew. He bought and bought and organised deliveries, and discovered that yes, they were indeed calling him Mad Baggins again already. Not helped by his frantic orders of ridiculous amounts of meats and cheeses and grains and fruits and demands of 'No, eight, _eight_ , how far will two go, _honestly_. This afternoon. _Price is no issue!_ "

Running home with what he could carry, he got the ovens going. The dwarves would arrive in two nights. Two nights! 

He started with the baking. While a dwarf's friendship could generally be procured through the repeated supply of meat and ale, one could significantly reduce the effort by including sweets in the offering. Bilbo wished he had known this _before_ Laketown. It would have saved him a lot of bother if he could have plied them with pastries before they left the Shire. 

Lesson learned.

So he began with sweet pies, tart tarts, creamy cheesecakes, delicate puddings, airy sponges, and rich heavy cakes. Flans, tortes and parfaits. Spun toffee, sugared violets, glazed strawberries, spiced apples, toasted nuts and delicate twists of meringue. Sweet sauces and creams and jams, the list went on, all baked, cooled, assembled and decorated and stored on the shelves of the second pantry. While he was at it, and working his way through a huge barrel of flour, he churned through several dozen heavy spiced ginger biscuits, currant and dried peel buns, and sweet honey and oat travel cakes that he could wrap into parcels that would slide into saddle bags and keep his companions happy for the first week of their journey. 

He worked the whole day through, stopping only for snacks and to direct through all the deliveries to his pantries. The evening, he barely bothered with much for his dinner before he stumbled to bed.

The next day was spent much the same day. More baking and kneading and preparation, back to the markets for all the things he had forgotten in his panic the day before, plus a few things just because. Rethinking his meal plan for a grander feast than soups and stews. Not that he didn't adore stews every day of the week as a good hearty dinner, but his dwarves had been complaining a few weeks into their travels, stew and soup being the staple of travellers. He would save all his best stew recipes for the road and treat them to their favourite of meat, meat and more meat for the night.

The afternoon he spent cleaning and finishing the preparations for leaving the Shire. And he packed. Much of what he would absolutely need was already set from his recent trek away from home, he needed only to restock some things and add a few others, and he was done. The evening he spent preparing the meats for the morning. 

The first thing he had done that morning was fire up the old stone outdoor oven his papa had built in the backyard, a great cavernous thing that could hold whole sides of meat when necessary. It took a while to warm and was a slow cook, but it would be burning all day, and as long as he kept the wood supplies in the base up, he'd get lovely moist meat that would fall off the bone. He'd wasted an hour the previous morning sweeping it out and chasing away a squatting squirrel, but it was a good oven for feeding the hordes, and his relatives would regularly clean it out and use it for large parties, so the readying hadn't been too much of a chore. Surveying what he had to work with, he nodded. Rolled, stuffed and glazed pork, basted side of beef, the lamb legs and the prized piece of venison -a rarity in Hobbiton. He carved and seasoned and glazed and marinated, hauling out pans and tins and pots that hadn't been used in years, moving all to the yard and using long beaten poles to situate the pans in the vast oven. The smells coming out of his yard after the first hour were heavenly.

The sun had barely set by this point and his bed was already calling him, but Bilbo was determined that there would be Supper for his lads as well as Dinner and Tea (a large late Tea time instead of dessert), so there was still work to be done. He set to with an assembly of sweet honey and beef sausages, spiced veal and brown bread meatballs, and a large meat roll, made from the minced flesh of a big fowl that the Proudfoots bred that had a lovely rich gamey flavour, especially good when mixed with Olo's tangy special sauce, and rolled into a log wrapped in slither thin slices of Farmer Chubb Snr's special smoked meat and glazed with more sauce. Some lamb, roughly ground for gravy filled pies in flaky pastry. With mushrooms and rosemary, he decided. That gave him another idea and he doubled his pastry, rolling out circled to fill with slices of steak and vegetables and cheese, another thing to wrap for the journey. Then, while he was at it, a lovely stuffed sheep’s stomach -he's gotten lucky with freshly slaughtered sheep providing some choice offal- stuffing it with herbs and oats and the heart and liver he'd bought, but he put aside the pile of kidneys, he'd fry them with scrambled eggs for breakfast for the dwarves. They would need something hearty before starting their journey.

He washed his dishes for what felt like the millionth time since the previous morning, refuelled the fire that would keep his meat cooking and staggered to the bathroom. He'd give himself a basin bath and head to bed for an early night, simple exhaustion helping him to sleep when his whole body thrummed with the knowledge that the next day, his dwarves would come.

Like hundreds of nights throughout his life, and most since returning to the 'before' time, he dreamt of his wedding.

He woke sweating and reaching and so filled with nerves he practically vibrated his way into the bathroom. But today was the big day. Today, his dwarves would come. Among them, his husband.

Fighting between the urge to retch, and titter uncontrollably, he instead forced himself into the kitchen. There was a feast to finish and no time for silly things like thinking, or nervousness.

Setting some fresh fruit to snack on while he worked, he started with the double moulded jelly he had left to set the day before. He mixed up the chilled ingredients for his creamy coconut blancmange and left it to chill some more before spooning it carefully into the lemon outer. His cold set custard was piped into bread pastries before dipped in fresh melted chocolate, and the rest flavoured with extra vanilla and thin flakes of almonds and into a dish to serve. A poured chocolate glaze over a torte, an orange infused buttercream on a vanilla cake, a lemon crisp icing spread over the ginger loaf, fresh raspberries in his sponge in between layers of stiff cream and covered in fine sugar. He finished off all the sweet dishes and wandered into the backyard to check on his slow roasting meat, topping up his fire supply.

Poking at the flames in the bottom of the oven, he came to the realisation that the amount of food he had prepared just wouldn't fit on his main dinner table. To be honest, he wasn't entirely sure how the dwarves had managed to fit what they had last time, let alone crammed themselves around it in the little family nook as they had. There was the table in the yellow dining room, but that wasn't that much larger, and his father had taken apart the table from the grand dining room not long before he died, with the plan of rebuilding a sturdier version after a party with some Brandybucks resulted in a distinctly wobbly leg. The dwarves would certainly fit in that room, though he would have to give it a thorough clean, since it had been closed up since his parents had passed, but perhaps if he moved both the tables he had in there...

He cast a contemplative look around his back garden- tonight's weather would be clear and not too cold, and the moon was full. With the oven still warm and a few torches, it could make for a delightful garden party, and less likely to damage his things if he was lucky. They could throw food and spill ale all they wanted out here. Retrieving a couple of coins and a bag of Ella Boffin's hard boiled sweets from inside, and yelling out to a few of the lads down the lane, it wasn't long before he had one of the large party tables and a few benches hauled up from the Brown's barns and assembled quick, while he picked his vegetable patch clean of produce. A few of his buns thrown into the deal, and they set up the ale kegs on stands nearby under his close supervision- the local boys were fond of the idea that helping also meant entitled sampling.

Shooing them off and tutting at the time, he went back to work. Some soft cheese rolled with herbs and bread crumbs and sizzled in a pan, and a platter of lamb cutlets set aside ready for the same treatment that afternoon and he moved on to the more fiddly foods. Some rice from the Took family paddy fields resting above the marshlands in Tookland, boiled and tossed in the pan with nuts and chilies and plump little currants, cooled and stuffed into tomatoes- he'd slow bake them later. A few cold chickens, stripped of flesh and shredded, mixed to his mother's special sandwich recipe, creamy and just the slightest bit tart with fine chopped green onions and celery, into fresh baked partially hollowed rolls and wrapped up tight in cloths to keep fresh. These were lovely fresh, but he had an inkling that they would do better toasted tonight.

Then it was time for the vegetables.

Now, it wasn't impossible to feed a dwarf vegetables. Honestly. You just had to be smart about it. As long as you didn't present anything that looked like a fresh-picked leaf off a tree, they would be happy. They weren't _elves_ , after all, they didn't eat plants. Or, at least, that's what they would tell you if asked.

(Unless you were very nice to Bombur and didn't mock him when he confessed that he actually loved salad a lot. It just wasn't a very dwarfly thing for him to eat.)

Bilbo had sneakily added in quite a few leafy vegetables into his dishes, spinach and kale and marrow and garlic mustard. He had just cut them fine and mixed them well into different things. Elves they were not, but Bilbo was not above being deceptive with his cooking if it meant adding some greenery to the diet of a dwarf. It was for their own good.

As for the rest, well. New carrots and turnips from his garden went into pans to roast with dozens of cloves of fresh garlic and generous sprigs of thyme laid over the top, all of it fresh from his garden. Potatoes were scrubbed free of dirt and sliced, skin and all, into rounds and layered with red onion and pats of butter and black pepper and set to slowly cook, more potatoes scrubbed and caked in oil and crusts of sea salt to roast, while even more potatoes were cut into wedges for chips. It just wouldn't be a feast for his boys if there weren't any chips. Two lovely great pumpkins were washed and knobbed on the top, seeds scooped out and stuffed with bread crumbs and bacon and pine nuts, tops back on and into the outside oven to bake for the rest of the day. They could be carved at the table at dinner time, and he resolved to make sure to snag a piece of the deliciousness for himself before Bifur the Pumpkin Pig got stuck into them. Cauliflower and broccoli heads he split into florets and set in a dish, covered in a white sauce flavoured lightly with cheese and nutmeg and baked until tender. A dozen of the biggest courgettes he could find were halved lengthways, flesh scooped out and mashed with a soft mellow cheese, some finely chopped spring onion and crisp red capsicum. That mix went back into the skins and set aside for baking later.

He still had the swedes to prepare, and he was considering using the leftover chicken sandwich mix to stuff some mushrooms, but it was time for a break, seeing as there was actually not much left to do, so he set the kettle to boil and went to shoo off the local lads who thought he wasn't paying much attention to the ale barrels. Cup of tea and a small tea cake later, he allowed himself the time for a pipe on the porch. After all, this was his normal time for a smoke on his front bench, being after the normal time for elevensies and all, and...

His stomach turned as he looked at the time on the old grandfather clock in the parlour. Gandalf had come just after elevensies last time.

Oh dear, oh dear, the jitters would kill him at this rate, make his heart give right out. He was _far_ too old for all this bother. He packed his pipe with as much weed as would fit with shaky hands and crept out his front door. Peering up and down the lane showed no sign of a tall grey figure stalking forward with his doom, so he made himself sit on his little wooden bench and light his pipe. Slow breaths of fragrant smoke in and out, he closed his eyes and forced himself to relax. Months of waiting and it was time to get all this ridiculousness started again. For now, he relished the warmth of sun on his face, the cool breeze blowing, carrying a bouquet of scents: lavender from his window boxes, the little miniature yellow rose by his bench and the honeysuckle climbing over the Gamgees’ gate arch. Why not wallow in the last of the peace he should have for a while, he thought.

The pop and zing of a smoke ring on his nose was familiar, and he blinked a little when he opened his eyes to see one of his oldest and dearest friends staring at him in amusement. Dumbfounded for a moment -because despite everything that had happened over the last three months, _this_ , Gandalf _here_ , was proof that this was actually happening- it took him a few seconds to remember the greeting he had scripted himself to for this moment.

"Good Morning."

Bilbo listened fondly to Gandalf's questioning of his exact meaning behind his greeting. It was a lot more amusing this time, especially his 'a morning to be good on' and a whole load less confudulating. The Wizard took his amusement where he could, and perplexing a Hobbit was one of the highest forms of hilarity for the old Goat. Something he and Elrond took great delight in teaming up for, miserable gits. Oh how he had missed them.

"All of them at the same time, I suppose," he recited dutifully, smiling up at the Biggun' in delight.

He had considered feigning ignorance of Gandalf's identity a second time, just to see him splutter so again, but Bilbo really wanted him to be a little more honest about his guests this time- an excuse to be prepared for them, at least, so he refrained.

"I believe I recognise you," he stated in the most curious tone he could muster. "You wouldn't happen to be Gandalf, the Wandering Wizard, would you?" Gandalf's eyebrows rose. Perhaps he hadn't expected to be known after all.

"That name does indeed belong to me. And you are Bilbo Baggins." Bilbo nodded politely in acknowledgement.

"I thought as much. The Old Took never stopped talking about those diamond studs you gave him, and mothers Shire-wide still warn their youngen's about you. I remember your fireworks well, and the stories of dragons and trolls and princesses you used to tell to us youngsters around the bonfire. Such stories...!" He gave a nice dramatic sigh, staring off into the distance for effect. "I had no idea you were still in business," he remarked blandly, ignoring the Wizards splutters. He snapped his gaze back to Gandalf. "What brings you to my humble Hill?"

"I happen to be looking for someone to share in an adventure." Cue the majestic stance, leaning on his staff with an air of mystery, the dramatic old bat. Bilbo really tried, but he couldn't hold in a fond smile. Here he was putting his acting skills to the test on the very being that had taught him all he knew. How ironic.

"You'd be pushing your luck around these parts, especially with your reputation, Mr Gandalf. I wonder what it is that brought you to my step out of all in Hobbiton. Or perhaps this is one of many stops in a neighbourhood doorknock?"

The Wizard stared at him. Bilbo blew a few smoke rings, hoping to appear calm, even though he was practically shrieking in excitement and agitation on the inside.

"I knew your mother, Belladonna," Gandalf finally answered. 

"Yes, I know. She always maintained a big person bedroom, on the left side of the Hill in fact, just in case you dropped by. I have kept it up myself since her passing."

"Is that an invitation to stay, Mr Baggins?"

"If you like. I wouldn't mind hearing about this adventure. An adventure with just yourself? I wouldn't mind meeting some new folk, elves, or even some dwarves. Men aren't much different than us, if lacking a fair bit of sense, but what can you expect from Big Folk?" Again, he couldn't hold back his grin. Merry Makers, this was fun!

"Do you mind?" Gandalf asked, gesturing to the bench, and Bilbo made room, handing over his pipeweed when Gandalf had come through his little gate and made himself comfortable. He waited through the packing of Gandalf's pipe and lighting, letting him smoke a few beautiful birds around his head.

"I need someone light of foot and quick of mind. It is... it is the type of adventure that comes along only once every few lifetimes, the type of adventure that will sweep you off to far away places, allow you bear witness to wonders you could never have imagined, be right in the thick of important events that will be forever recorded in the halls of all the peoples of Arda. There may be Elves at some point, maybe a few Men, and most certainly, Dwarves."

"Most certainly?" Bilbo asked in amusement.

" _Most_ certainly," Gandalf declared loftily.

"How many dwarves, Master Wizard?" This time he couldn't help a short chuckle in absolute delight that he quickly tried to turn into a cough. Gandalf peered at him askance around his pipe before huffing into his beard. 

"A few... no more than thirteen."

"Thirteen!" Bilbo made himself yelp.

"A merry bunch, I assure you." 

Bilbo glared at Gandalf a moment and puffed on his pipe, turning his gaze to the sky for a while.

"I suppose they're close by, then?"

"Close, yes."

Cue his own dramatic huff. Never a straight answer with this one.

"Dinner is at four. Bring them along, we can talk of adventuring after they're fed. No doubt they eat well?" he questioned and received a confirming nod. "Dinner then, and adventure talk I suppose, with Tea, and I can surely offer Supper if there is anything to be had after they're done with the first two, and I have beds to spare for the night. Should I choose to send you on your way, I can at least see you off with a hearty breakfast, I suppose."

"Trust a Hobbit to be most concerned with the stomachs," Gandalf chuckled, and Bilbo glared again, till he could hold it no longer and joined in the chuckling. 

"Four o'clock, then? I'll have a good Red out to breathe."

"Four o'clock for dinner, Mr Baggins."

"Call me Bilbo," he hummed as Gandalf stood to leave. His new -old- friend smiled.

"Bilbo." Singing to himself, Gandalf plodded down the road in that loping walk of his. 

Oh look, Bilbo thought to himself, I'm having dwarves over for dinner. 

Bugger.

 

******

 

By the time four o'clock came around, the dishes were piled high on the poor table that groaned under the weight, and Bilbo could only hope that Fíli would not try and walk on the table this time. He honestly didn't think that it would hold up under the additional weight. The rooms had all had incense lit and coverlets snapped and freshened, pillows plumped and fresh cut lavender on the coverlets. He'd had to haul a few extra mattresses out of one of the cellars the day before, but they were good mattresses, if a little musty, but a few hours in the sun the day before had done them a world of good. He had enough to lay them double high and clean fresh bedding for each, so all his dwarves would be comfortable enough, if a few needing to double up in rooms.

His pack was triple checked for everything that he found the most useful in his travels in the last life, and in his impromtu fix-it trek this time. He had his maps, his notes, and a bundle full of excuses lined up for any questions asked about his knowledge of their quest. He was as prepared as he could be for the arrival of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield and the consequent quest. 

And he was a wreck. He'd distracted himself throughout the afternoon with his swedes and his mushrooms, switching out pans in his oven when needed, and shelling a giant pot of new baby peas with fervour. He'd done a salad, too, because it would at least garner a laugh or two at the very least and he could always sneak it over to Bombur, sweet rotund Bombur, who kept his fondness of salad tight to his chest, lest he be labelled a 'weed sympathiser'. But the cooking was done now, and he had indulged in a long hot bath and dressed carefully, subconsciously choosing what he though Thorin might like best. There really wasn't any clothing he really possessed that would convince thirteen dwarrows from first glance that he wasn't, well, an overfed grocer. Two months on the road had certainly helped with the overfed look of things, his hair was even a lot longer this time, perhaps to even Dwarvish standards. But still, his Dwarves had not had a good opinion of Hobbits to begin with, and nothing that he wore tonight was going to change that very quickly. Hopefully his feeding them would help them look upon him kindly, and make it a little easier to prove himself as they went along.

It was his husband that was the problem. 

Thorin was never going to look at him how he did. Theoretically, Bilbo could try again. He was prepared to whip out every last little bit of snark at his disposal if necessary, though he would have to be so very careful. He was not entirely sure of the consequences of letting something of the before time slip into conversation. So he would be very, very careful to guard his tongue. Even still, should he try and recreate all that had happened between them the first time? There were no guarantees. He could end up making Thorin hate him. Properly hate him, this time. There was a chance, but the worst was the thought of what was to come. How his dearest husband would look at him when they first met. It hurt the first time when they were complete strangers, how was he going to deal with it this time, with the memories of Thorin gazing at him with nothing but awe and devotion? What would this do to his poor heart?

There was naught to be done. He could only follow his love to the East, prove himself as best he could along the way and hope for the best. Hope that perhaps he could be so blessed again.

A harsh knock at the door had his spine stiffened and his whole body to shaking. There was no more time for doubts and second guessing. His dwarves were here.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... I'm a little nervous about this one. Do let me know if it is all that was hoped for? I kinda wrote this whole thing for this chapter. And somehow, this turned out to be the beginning of the story, not the point. Oi.

Thorin was pretty sure he was going to throw up. Everywhere. All over the lovely rose bushes lining the pretty Hobbit lane they were traversing. They'd be run out of The Shire before he could see Bilbo and none of his Company would ever respect him again. Tales would be told of 'That Dwarf that went to reclaim Erebor from a dragon and instead lost his guts in a rose bush and had to be hauled home in disgrace chased by tiny beardless farmers and shoeless lasses with frying pans'. And his sister would laugh at him for all time. After she murdered him. She and the boys would have to change their names and move away and try and pass as Firebeards.

He... may have already messed with how things had happened the first time thirteen dwarves entered The Shire. Last time he'd sent several members of The Company on different tasks with the idea that they would all meet up where ever the Wizard left message to go to. He'd stayed with his sister for a few days to finalise a few things and try and finagle a few more promises from reluctant kin. This time, he hadn't wanted to waste the time where it would do no good. A long time of thinking had him deciding that there was no point in following how things had gone last time, when it clearly hadn't worked. He'd been sent back to the beginning of the quest, so obviously it needed to be changed from the very beginning. And change it, well, it was already well and changed. For the better, he thought. Last time, Glóin and Óin had been set upon by bandits while making their way out of the hills to meet them. They'd beaten them off easily and hadn't sustained injury, but they had lost one pony and some supplies, and had to spend coin they could not really afford to replace them. They had delayed most of the others that they were set to meet, and Bombur had been pickpocketed while holed up in an inn waiting for them. Just getting to the Shire had been costly, in the end, and started them out badly.

Balin, the first time, he'd sent out weeks before, to meet with Dwarves they thought would help. He'd half exhausted himself riding back and forth, and all for nothing in the end. He'd been set to depart the day that Thorin had, well, 'come back' he'd started calling it. Instead, though, he'd made Balin stay, and all the others as well. They would leave together, travel with safety in numbers, refreshed and ready from the beginning, instead of already somewhat disheartened and travel weary before their Company had even been properly assembled. 

So, a full four days he had allowed this time to reach the Shire. He didn't want to be early. They would arrive with just enough time to receive the message from the Wizard on where to meet, and then travel directly to Hobbiton. To his dear little One.

He was going to lose his lunch.

Because they were _here_. They were trekking up the hill to the home of his love, and he wasn't sure if he was ready. 

He swerved off the path from where he was leading them to Bag End and clutched at a convenient fence, breathing harshly through his nose. Dwalin made a noise like a strangled cat behind him, but Thorin ignored him.

He was trying, Mahal was he trying. Dwalin and Balin knew that there was something wrong. The others suspected, and no doubt Óin and Glóin had been told a lot of what had happened with his sister weeks before, because the Fundin-sons were hopeless at keeping secrets from their cousins- all four of them tended to band together under the impression that it was their duty to look after him. But he was only dwarven*, and as much as he was trying to keep himself together, this was all too damn much. How was he supposed to just pretend that none of it had ever happened? He couldn't do it. He couldn't pretend to be who he was before, because who he was before wasn't good enough. Who he was before was exactly what had doomed them last time. If they were to succeed, if he was to reclaim Erebor for them and get them all through this properly, he had to change. Altering the course of history would only happen if he allowed himself to be altered. And yes, the Dwarf he needed to be was different to the person they thought they knew. He would show them that this was better.

And hopefully gain himself a mate in the process.

For now though, he needed to freak out. Because Bilbo's pretty green door was just over the rise in the lane, and he _wasn't ready_.

"Thorin?" Bofur asked tentatively. Ah yes, they were all waiting for him to get up and lead them up the hill and Bofur obviously being the poor fellow hastily elected to find out what the hell was wrong with him. He needed to take them to Bilbo's. He totally would. In just a moment. He wasn't even lost this time. It helped that it wasn't dark yet. And he had been here before. They may have come the long way around one of the lanes, but that may have been for him to buy a little time for himself. And perhaps because these rambling paths could be damn confusing.

"I just need a moment," he breathed, and was startled to feel one of his Company hesitantly pat him on the back in comfort- he absolutely did not want to know who. That was it, he had to get his shit together. Now. Breathe, dammit.

"Right," he nodded. Back straight, he shook out the stiffness in his shoulders and set his jaw. "I can do this." 

Eyes narrowed, he marched up the hill, straight over the rise and half-kicked the cute little gate out of his way, stomping his way straight up the front door, his Company shuffling and murmuring behind him. Once arriving at the door, though, he hesitated again.

"Alright," he told himself. "Don't be an arse. I can do this."

Somebody made a choking noise.

"...He's always an arse, though, that's what makes him Thorin," he heard Kíli whisper after a moment in a terribly bewildered tone, and he huffed at realising he had been pep-talking himself _out loud_ , and raised a fist, paused only briefly again before hammering harshly on the door. He winced. He'd told himself that he wouldn't be an arse, and here he was banging on the door impatiently. 'Be nice,' he reminded himself, internally this time.

The lads were all shifting behind him in impatience, Dori wandering aloud whether perhaps the inhabitants weren't home, and when Dwalin leaned over to ring the doorbell -had there always been a doorbell there?- Thorin halted him. There was no mark of the wizard this time. Perhaps he had got the wrong door?

Just as he was starting to wonder whether he had this all wrong, he heard the sound of the door slowly being opened, a slight figure coming into view as the hard wood swung out of the way. 

Soft furred feet, toes wriggling nervously. His signature soft brown trousers on lovely curved hips, an elegant blue fitted waistcoat over one of his fine white shirts, small hands fidgeting with the brass buttons and shirt cuffs. He was smaller, yet so much more, and even still, _exactly_ the Bilbo that Thorin remembered, heart thundering in his chest. How on earth had he not wanted to ravish this creature on the spot the first time he met him?

Oh. Riotous curls, wide eyes and long lashes. Cheeky mouth.

His Bilbo. His Bilbo, right in front of him, who was staring at their feet, taking a deep breath and finally raising his gaze.

Their eyes locked.

Thorin had just the briefest of moments for his whole body to light up with joy before his head snapped abruptly to the side and his cheek blossomed with heat and the door slammed shut in his face.

"I deserved that," he said, wincing at the sting. His husband had slapped him. Rather hard. He completely deserved it.

***

On the other side of the door, Bilbo's eyes round in his paled face, was braced back against the back of his door.

"Oh, dear," he whispered to himself in a panic. He hadn't meant to do that. Oh, what a terrible, horrible, no good impression he had just made. He should probably open the door and apologise, if they weren't gone already, or ready to break down his door and behead him for the dishonour he had shown.

Obviously he was not as prepared to see his husband as he thought he was. And somehow he had changed something with his conversation with Gandalf, because Bilbo was sure that he was going to be seeing Dwalin when he opened the door. And now he'd buggered everything up by being completely and utterly overly emotional. 

His shoulders slumped for a moment, before his ears twitched and he tilted his head to hear the happenings on the other side of the door, frowning at the unexpected comment from the other side.

***

Thorin flexed his jaw a little. He'd forgotten how much of a wallop Bilbo could dish out if you really managed to piss him off. 

Wait.

Wait, _Bilbo_ had _slapped_ him. _He'd slapped him!_ Unless he had somehow managed to offend the Hobbit purely with the stench of his traveling clothes, there was no way he...

The world seemed a little too bright and he could feel a ridiculous grin on his face, knees going weak. Was it possible...? 

"I'll wring his ruddy neck!" Dwalin growled next to him. Thorin huffed a laugh, amazed that he managed that, because how was he still breathing when it felt like his chest was about to explode and his face was going to crack from the force of his joy.

"I got off lucky," he half sang in delight. "He's got one hell of a mean left hook on him." 

Behind the door he heard a startled gasp before the door was flung open, and his pretty Hobbit's anxious face was gazing at him hopefully. By Mahal, he was the most gorgeous thing that Thorin had ever seen.

"Thorin," Bilbo whispered hopefully, and Thorin was stepping forward and grabbing and lifting him and Bilbo was wrapping himself around Thorin, hands clutching and fisting like Thorin may disappear, legs clamping around his waist. 

"Bilbo," Thorin gasped out, burying his face into golden locks, shaking and laughing and his Hobbit, his _husband_ , how? "Thank you, oh thank you, Mahal, thank you..." he prayed, gripping the precious body to him. 

Bilbo's face was buried in his shoulder and his breath was coming as great tearing sobs that shook his whole body. Thorin clung back and shook and tried not to fall when his knees went weak. His Burglar, safe in his arms, and what had he ever done to deserve this blessing?

"You bastard," Thorin heard Bilbo gasp finally. "You complete and utter _bastard_."

"I know, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, love." 

"You should be, you prick."

Thorin laughed and Bilbo aimed a clumsy half-hearted swipe at his shoulder. Thorin laughed again while Bilbo deliberately rubbed his slightly teary, snotty face on his cloak. 

Bilbo's laugh was a burbling bright thing.

Oh, how that sound could make his heart stop.

Thorin wrapped one hand carefully in soft curls, slowly drawing Bilbo back to look at his beloved's face. Eyes roaming, he took in every detail, warmth blossoming in what felt like his soul as he saw familiar devotion and relief in eyes too weary and heartsore. His poor husband.

"You're just as beautiful as the last time I saw you," he nodded, drawing a startled sound of amused disbelief out of his Halfling.

"Last time you saw me I was covered in Orc guts and bleeding from the head," Bilbo reminded Thorin with a bright grin.

"Beautiful," he repeated fervently, earning another gorgeous burble of happiness that made his heart thump hard in his chest. By the Makers, he would do anything, endure anything, fix any problem the Valar wanted fixed if only he could keep his husband and earn more of that gloriously infectious happiness, more smiles, more laughter.

Speaking of smiles, those soft lips on that cheeky little mouth, that perfect mouth, it was right there and he still hadn't kissed it yet. He hadn't had the chance to kiss his husband when they had pledged themselves to each other. The light was fading so quickly for him, he had used every last bit of strength in him to make his vows and hear his burglar repeat them back, heard Gandalf, Dain, Bard and, by Mahal, _Thranduil_ , all swear them legally bound in the eyes of their respective people before he had finally succumbed. He was owed a kiss to seal their vows, dammit.

By the darkening of his Bilbo's eyes, he could tell his husband agreed whole-heartedly, and he was just wrapping his hand more securely in those soft curls, Bilbo's hand sliding up to wrap around the back of his neck and the other around Bilbo's favourite braid, when somebody cleared their throat behind him. Loudly. Obnoxiously. Bilbo's amused gaze flitted to the bodies behind him.

"Oh. Hello, Gandalf."

Thorin tried very hard to suppress a growl, but something must have slipped out, judging by the amused glance from Bilbo. Trust the bloody Wizard to show up at precisely the wrong moment. His husband wiggled a little, wanting to slide down off him, and Thorin resisted, hiking the smaller body a little higher on himself and reluctantly turning. There was absolutely no way he was letting go right now, not even with twelve other dwarves staring at him in jaw-dropped shock.

"I was not aware that you two knew each other….and certainly not quite so intimately?" Gandalf enquired, eyebrows raised in enquiry. The old bat really had no cause to look that amused at the sight of them, Thorin thought, and grunted in irritation as his response, turning away to carry his Hobbit further into the Hobbit hole, headed for the lovely hearth he had sat by last time, warm and snug in one of the most comfortable chairs he had ever sunk his furry dwarven arse into. He'd let himself enjoy it, this time, with a pretty Hobbit on his lap, and maybe sneak his kisses, if he could rid himself of the rest of the mob.

Bilbo leant over his shoulder as he followed the curve of the hall and called to the stunned-still Dwarrows on his doorstep.

"Please come in and make yourselves comfortable!"

Thorin ignored the shuffling behind him, intent now on that comfy chair and the chance to perch his husband in his lap and kiss him until he was breathless. He honed in on the -quite ugly, really- overstuffed red chair, shiny in some spots with age, missing one leg and propped up on a pile of books, pushed nice and close to the fire, a worn knitted fuzzy grey blanket draped over one arm. Perfect. Across the room with his love nuzzling into his neck in the most distracting way, rearranging the two of them to comfortably fit into the chair -as comfortably as one could with an axe strapped to their back- Bilbo's front pressed securely to his own, and he refocused on that mouth again. He was just determinedly winding his fingers back into silken locks, when twelve Dwarves and a Wizard shoved their way into the doorway to gawk, and not even his fiercest of glares seemed enough to dissuade them from doing so.

Fíli's gaze slid down to Thorin's possessive grip on Bilbo's luscious behind and his eyebrows near hit his hairline. He stuck an elbow into his brother's side and grinned.

"Ah, Thorin?" Glóin's wary voice made him sigh. It would, from the point of view of those standing in the doorway, seem slightly improper for him to have hauled a Hobbit into his lap and be preparing to ravish him quite openly like this. His kin had been fairly tolerant of him last time, but they had been there to witness the progression of their relationship, had known and trusted Thorin enough to know that he did not intend to do anything more than kiss his Hobbit, not until he had declared his intentions to court and wed their burglar, and by that point, they had not begrudged him a chance to be with the one he so clearly loved, not with the threat of the dragon looming over their fate. This time... they had absolutely no clue on what Thorin was doing. Best to nip the situation in the bud before it got out of hand.

"Kin and Company, I would have you know my husband and Consort, Bilbo Baggins. Husband, my kin and Company." He turned back to his One, fixing his gaze on soft tempting lips again and leaning forward...

" _Husband!?_ " came the shriek from several parties and a quiet, thoughtful "ah, I see" from Gandalf who was no way as insouciant as he professed to be, and Thorin sighed, forehead dropping to rest on his beloved's shoulder for a moment, feeling Bilbo's body shake a little in mirth, and he poked his husband in the side in admonishment.

"Introduce me properly," Bilbo announced, worming his way off Thorin's lap, and Thorin growled again. Thwarted from his plan to kiss his husband! He pushed himself from the terribly comfortable chair and stood behind Bilbo, winding his arms around the slighter body.

"Are you sure you want to bother?" he asked sulkily, shrugging when Bilbo glared over his shoulder at him.

"Fine. These two terrors grinning at you like fools here are my sister-sons, Fíli and Kíli. Ignore them and their nonsense wherever possible."

"Uncle!" the boys objected.

"The truly ugly mutt scowling there is Dwalin, and the one looking rather faint behind him is his brother Balin, both sons of Fundin. The red-head beside Balin is Glóin, and the one by the Wizard is Óin, both sons of Gróin, younger brother of Fundin. Their great-grandfather was my great-grandfather's younger brother, so I am somewhat obliged to like them. The three overly handsome dwarves to the side with the impressive hair are -oldest to youngest- Dori, Nori and Ori, all sons of Lári, who was a descendant of my great-great-great-great-grandfather, though never legitimised- my ancestor was a randy old coot. The three jolly fellows in the back are no traceable kin, but trusted Companions on our quest, left to right: Bombur, Bifur and Bofur, ignore the axe, it's fine. And you unfortunately know Gandalf."

"Bilbo Baggins, at your service. Please accept my apology for Thorin's manners." His husband attempted a little bow, barely succeeding what with Thorin wrapped around him so and earning a half-hearted swat on his behind for the apology.

"Husband?" Óin questioned again.

"Ugly?" muttered Dwalin.

"Yes, husband. Traditionally married and declared by four races. Though no witnesses could I present to you to verify that," Thorin scowled.

"And why not?" Óin asked, gaze narrowed.

"They're dead," Bilbo interjected calmly. "They're all gone now. But representatives of four races were present. Even _Elves_ ," he accentuated. Thorin couldn't help the noise of distress that left him at the thought, and Bilbo rounded on him.

"Don't you start! He was very kind to me, after you, you..." He trailed off, and the expression on his face as he gazed at Thorin was suddenly helpless and lost, so Thorin gathered him close and soothed him with kisses to the top of the head now buried in his chest, stroking down his back with wide sweeps of his hands, the way that had always calmed his little One before.

"When I left you," he finished softly, and felt the shudder at his words.

"Bastard," Bilbo hissed into his shoulder.

"I know. I'm sorry. Do you want to slap me again?"

"I _should_ ," Bilbo moaned, gripping at him for a moment before he resolutely straightened.

"None of that now." He plastered on a smile and turned to his guests. "Let me take your coats and we can settle in for dinner, yes?"

Spinning back to Thorin he quickly unclasped his travel cloak and whipped it off, holding one hand out for his axe while relieving Thorin of the two daggers tucked beneath his leather brigandine, the small throwing blade up his left pauldron and its mate in the right vambrance, leaning down to snag the two knives he always kept tucked in the top of his boots. Thorin dropped his axe into Bilbo's arms and retrieved another knife he had wedged up the back of his belt.

"Remind me later that I have something for you," Bilbo remarked absently, eyeing Thorin's axe as he sidled past Thorin and the rest of the dwarves to lay the weapons out carefully on a nearby cabinet and shake out the cloak to hang on a peg near the door. 

Last time, Bilbo had been surprised to learn from Thorin a fair way into their journey, that the handing over of weapons to a host was a sign of good faith and trust. He had lamented to Thorin how much he had wished he had known that the first time. Bilbo had been so distressed and irritated at the Dwarves casual foisting of weapons off on his person as they had arrived and thought that they were mocking him, treating him as a servant that was beneath them. Had he known that they had meant it in the best of ways, he would have treated their weapons with more care and consideration. Thorin was hoping that his trust for Bilbo was apparent by the casual way they had dealt with his own gear.

Evidently, it had, and just like that, his Company had turned as one and started to hand off cloaks and all manner of weaponry without care to their host, and Thorin was sighing in relief. Their unconventional introduction to their new burglar hadn't warned them all off yet. Bilbo's face fairly glowed as he rushed to place everything, in any case. Seeing Kíli go as far as to strip off his leathers, Thorin copied, stripping furs, surcoat, brigandine and all, till he was down to his tunic and undershirt, slipping off down the hall to set his things down on a chair in what he knew to be Bilbo's bedroom. He briefly laid one reverent hand on the bed in silent promise before he quietly made his way back to the Bilbo's side.

"To dinner then! This way," Bilbo ushered them, snagging Thorin's arm and dragging him down a hall. "You all must be starved. I hope you are, at least, as I have prepared a substantial dinner. I am quite aware that Dwarves only eat a scant three meals a day, but, you may or may not know, we Hobbits normally eat a lot more, so I have Tea and Supper for all as well for later. And clean beds ready for you all to sleep tonight, and plenty of wash facilities, too." He turned to look at the Company behind him as they finally reached the back door, and smiled at all the hopeful faces. "I hope you all feel welcome for your short stay here at Bag End."

Bilbo pushed open the back door and scurried forward to start removing lids and warmers from pans and dishes set out along the party bench he had borrowed. Thorin could only stare. He had known that his Hobbit liked to cook, and cook _well_ , and that he was a generous little soul, but this was ridiculous. The amount of food...

"You have been busy, husband."

Bilbo looked over his shoulder at the Dwarves gaping at the laden table in delight and laughed.

"I think I know by now to have plenty of food available if Dwarrows are coming to dinner. Otherwise they ransack the pantries and leave the kitchen in ruins. Mead and Ale are behind you, lads. They're tapped already, mugs are beside the barrels." Bilbo turned back to the table, already forking generous portions of different dishes onto a plate, setting it down at the head of the table and gently pressing Thorin into sitting at the place. He turned to the others, gently herding them into places along the table, huffing at their bewildered expressions.

"Come now, plenty for everyone. Fíli, Kíli, what can I get for you boys?" The two young ones looked from the laden table to Bilbo in adoration, breathing out an 'Everything," in perfect unison, which seemed to break the spell of silent reverence the Dwarves had been caught in, and they dove in, dishes almost flying around the table as they all did their best to load themselves up with hearty servings of everything available. Bilbo nodded in satisfaction, wielding a set of tongs with amazing dexterity as he plied Thorin's boys with morsel upon morsel, much to their delight.

"None of your famous lamb and tomato stew, is there?" Thorin asked around a mouthful of venison, and Bilbo shook his head fondly at him. 

"Nope. You're Dwarves out travelling. You'll be eating stew for the next month or so, I thought you might appreciate a more sophisticated meal before that," he replied, deftly carving another generous slice of roast stuffed pumpkin for Bifur while nudging the salad bowl closer to Bombur with a wink when he spotted the rotund redhead eyeing it wistfully. "Can you be content with marmalade glazed pork and herb-crusted lamb cutlets?" he asked teasingly, dancing away to fill a mug with mead and back to press it into Thorin's hands.

"Lamb cutlets?" Nori asked, head bobbing up from his plate. Bilbo lifted the platter across and couldn't resist petting him on the top of his coifed head to see a half dozen chops tipped onto the already over-flowing plate. He sidled sideways a few steps and snagged his cheesy nutmeg baked vegetables and subtly slid a large scoop of cream soaked broccoli onto Ori's plate, whispering a quick "Trust me," into the young Dwarf's ear when he eyed it dubiously. More Woolly Pudd for Dori, and a few stuffed courgettes, and he snagged the platter of roasted potatoes and the beef to refill Glóin's plate, pausing briefly to admire the ferocious way his Husband's cousin was decimating his food. A few more lamb cutlets on Dwalin's plate and a bowl of fresh baked buns at his elbow and he scurried off to refill the bald-dwarf's mug of ale, scooping up Óin's and Balin's while he was at it. Four stuffed tomatoes and chips onto Óin's plate and rounds of roast lamb and potato bake on Balin's, with Bofur all but holding the rest of the venison hostage, and he had done a full round of the table, to be beside Gandalf. Hesitantly, he slid a pot of Chutney made from his prize tomatoes close to the wizards plate and nervously added some more tender slices of different meats with some mushrooms, trying to ignore the intent gaze of the other. 

"Quite the feast you have put together here, dear Bilbo, and in only a few hours since we spoke of this gathering?" Gandalf enquired lightly, and Bilbo gulped.

"We Hobbits have our ways," he laughed nervously. "Oh, and dear me, I've left your red wine in the kitchen. Let me fetch that."

Bilbo fled back inside the house and into the kitchen, almost collapsing against one of the counters when he got there. The looks that Gandalf had been giving him since he had arrived behind all the dwarves on his front stoop were heavy with cautiousness, and Bilbo honestly was not sure how long he would be able to keep from Gandalf his secret- well, his and Thorin's now, he supposed. He hugged himself in abrupt happiness, smiling into the dim of his kitchen. He had his husband back. Bilbo was not sure why, or how, and he didn't particularly care, as long as he got to keep Thorin. _His_ Thorin.

Arms sneaking around his waist from behind almost made him jump from his own skin and he just barely stifled his yelp before he recognised the warmth and strength of the limbs. 

"Husband," he whispered, turning in Thorin's arms while his beloved pressed close. He let his nose rub lightly against Thorin's, and felt more than heard the rumble of satisfaction in his chest.

"You owe me a kiss," Thorin murmured. 

"Do I?" Bilbo asked breathily.

"Mmm, we were to seal the binding of our souls with a kiss. I never got that kiss."

Bilbo stilled, the memories of blood and cold and desperation hitting him vividly for a moment, reality twisting in on itself until the heat and presence of his husband reasserted itself into his attention and he shook his head and attempted to smile.

"I did give you that kiss," he chuckled shakily. "You just..." He trailed off, unable to say the words. He couldn't.

Thorin stared a minute before nodding. 

"Would you consider giving me another chance at that? It is an important one. Our first wedded kiss."

Bilbo nodded, tilting his head back and sliding his arms up to encircle Thorin's neck. Carefully, Thorin once again wound a hand into the soft, soft curls and lowered his head. He paused, looking about himself for a moment and Bilbo frowned.

"What?"

"Just checking for the inevitable interruptions," Thorin replied, and Bilbo huffed, smile returning as he melted back into his love's body.

"Kiss me," he demanded.

"I believe I just said _you_ owe _me_ a kiss," Thorin's breath whispered across his lips

" _Kiss m-_ "

Despite the way Thorin dove forward, it started soft, lips brushing softly against each other hesitantly, and Bilbo gasped at the warmth of the mouth against his, body swaying forward in want. They pressed together firmer, and then Thorin slanted his head just so, and then Bilbo was moaning, wanton and loud enough to surely be heard outside, but he didn't really care. Thorin was possessing his mouth, deep and hot, nipping and licking and Bilbo went weak at the knees, Thorin bracketing him against the bench with his own body. Seventy Nine years had done nothing to cool his desire for his husband and it was ridiculous how he was so hard and so eager after just a few kisses. Incredible kisses, but still. His moans grew louder as their kisses grew deeper and more frantic, Thorin's own throaty moans spurring Bilbo's heat higher. And by the Makers, it had to stop.

"Thorin," he pleaded when his husband moved his mouth down to Bilbo's sensitive neck, and it took a moment for Thorin to realise that Bilbo was weakly pushing at his chest rather than pulling him closer.

"What's wrong?" he asked, unable to tear himself away from tasting the flesh beneath his mouth, nipping the soft flesh beneath his husbands ear with his lips, dragging teeth ever so lightly the entire length of the delicate neck, delighting in the hitched breath and shudder it produced.

"Gandalf... is waiting. For the wine," Bilbo stuttered, shuddering all over again when Thorin growled throatily against his skin. 

" _Fuck_ the wine," was the only reply and Bilbo whimpered when one hand slid to cup his arse, tugging him closer.

"Really prefer that you fuck me," he whined and then yelped when Thorin _snarled_ , grabbing him and lifting and forcing his way in between Bilbo's thighs until their lengths aligned and they were rubbing against each other through the fabric of their clothing. Bilbo could not help a few helpless thrusts before he managed to push against Thorin's chest again.

"Not yet," he begged. "They'll come looking soon, you know they will. They'll see us." He whimpered again when Thorin's grip tightened. "Later, after they are all a-bed. You can have me all night then." Thorin's hips thrust forward erratically for a second before he forced himself to still, dropping his head down to rest on Bilbo's shoulder. He knew his husband was right, he deserved more than a rut against the kitchen counter, especially with a gaggle of nosy dwarves and an even nosier wizard just an open door away, but damn if it wasn't hard to let himself part from his little husband's welcoming warmth now.

"All night," Thorin vowed, breathing deeply. He gentled the almost rough grip he had on Bilbo and slowly parted their lower bodies and lowered his Hobbit to the floor. He moved his hands to grip the counter either side of Bilbo, until he felt like he could move without embarrassing himself and chanced one more kiss on his husband's swollen lips. As it was, the Company would already know what they were up to in the kitchen just from looking at them, but at least he could control himself and prevent them seeing anything improper. 

"We need to talk soon," Thorin reluctantly admitted. Bilbo tensed, and Thorin sighed. He hadn't had a lot of time to consider it, but he gathered from what Bilbo had said about Thranduil before, that he had more memory than Thorin did of the time before. He'd hoped when he first saw him that Bilbo had come back from the same point he did, but there was something in his eyes when he looked at Thorin that he knew to mean that it wasn't so simple as that. Bilbo's reaction made dread pool sickeningly in his gut, and he regretted saying anything. 

"Later. After... Later. Please?" his husband pleaded, eyes shadowed and cast over Thorin's shoulder. He shifted to take a bottle of the counter, and Thorin reached to stop him, turning Bilbo back towards him and cupping a soft cheek in his palm.

"I love you," he asserted, waiting for Bilbo's gaze to snap back to his, shadows melting away for the moment, and earning Thorin a breathtaking smile. 

"Oh Thorin, I love you," Bilbo sighed, and for a moment everything was as it used to be and their lips met again for a moment before movement at the door startled them apart.

Thorin's sister-sons stood in the doorway, eyes bright with avid interest as they stared at them.

"Gandalf's wondering where his wine is," Kíli said brightly.

"We thought we'd come and make sure everything was alright," Fíli added.

"Little perverts," Thorin sighed. Out the corner of his eye, Bilbo was smiling, but it was a little too fixed, a little brittle, and Thorin waved at the bottle on the counter. "Everything is fine, the wizard's wine is there. Take it to him and leave us be."

Fíli fetched the wine while Kíli tried to muffle his giggles, and neither of them even bothered as they left the kitchen, their silly chortles bright in the silent room.

"Love?"

Bilbo shook his head, still looking after the boys, and blinked back a few tears. 

"I just. I feel like this is a dream. I still wonder, if this is not all a hallucination. But you... and the boys."

"I know. It was hard for me as well. And without you... I have missed you these past few weeks."

Bilbo stared at him a moment. "Weeks?"

"Yes. Three long weeks missing you desperately, since I woke in my bed in Ered Luin. One moment I was with you, death upon me, Dain and Thranduil and Bard were adding their pronouncements of our bond to Gandalf's, and then everything went dark and I awoke in my bed. I thought I had lost you. What?" he questioned when Bilbo's head shaking turned frantic.

"I-" he stopped. "Later," he said finally. Thorin studied him carefully a moment.

"Alright. Later." He leaned for another kiss and then led his husband out the door to the others. The sooner they could get this evening over with, the sooner he could figure things out with Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *Only Dwarven is the equivalent of only human. Yes?


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eeek! I know this is a day late, apologies, my kids were nightmares yesterday.
> 
> Now, there were some queries from previous chapters. Let me help a little.
> 
> Firstly, Bombur and salad, someone was doubtful. I would have you read a book called The Hobbit. At the beginning, Bombur arrives with the others at Bilbo's home, and promptly asks for Pork-pie and salad. For realz. Second, the very interesting book called The Hobbit also references how splendid BagEnd is for its, amongst other things, MANY pantries and kitchens and it's multiple dining rooms and bedrooms- the best of which were on the left side of the hill, since they had windows. Seriously, it was Peter Jackson that made Bilbo's home small and cosy.

_'Golden', though the_  
 _wanderer's thought,_  
 _shallow waters, running deep.._

_Forever wandered,_  
 _where mount flow to sea,_  
 _the ageless ne'er met'_

Thorin was singing.

The sound resonated through his chest, and Bilbo pressed his ear closer to the warm shoulder below. The others sang as well, and had pulled out various instruments of merrymaking, now that they had fairly decimated the dinner he had provided. They seemed satisfied; in fact, Bombur had actually remarked to his brother that he was full, in a voice so bewildered that it had set the dwarves to raucous laughter. All that remained of the sumptiouis repast was some of the roasted meats, and Bilbo knew he should take them inside soon, cut them to make sandwiches for tomorrow and start the washing of the dishes, but he was too comfortable. Thorin had placed him on his lap when they had come back to the table, and refused to let him shift- not that Bilbo had wanted to move. As the hour progressed, Bilbo had let himself slump back in his husband's hold, turning his head to the side to listen to the thump of the proud heart beneath his cheek

Dinner was done, and he was supposed to be up and preparing for tea time, but he could not find it in him to move. Not when the dwarves were singing and Thorin was delicious heat and _real_ beneath him and he was surrounded by his dear family. He was still on a low simmer, the desire to yank his husband away and lock themselves in the bedroom together, strip him of his remaining layers and do deliciously wicked things to him was most definitely still there, but even more overwhelming than that was the urge for comfort. He really just needed the comfort of his family and friends _here_. Alive and well. A moment of peace out of all the craziness of the last _seventy-nine years_.

He hummed and rubbed his cheek against Thorin's soft, worn tunic as his song slowly petered out on a long low note. The resulting silence told him the dwarves were done singing for the time, and they were most likely back to staring again, but he couldn't be bothered opening his eyes to see for himself, even when Thorin nuzzled affectionately at his temple.

"Comfortable, are you?" Thorin murmured in Bilbo's free ear, and he shivered at the sensation.

"Quite," he mumbled back, stretching his body in a toe-curling arch and warm arms tightened around him in reflex. He rolled his head up, burying his face in Thorin's neck and kissing the skin there, wriggling in satisfaction before flopping bonelessly. Thorin's chuckle rumbled through his throat and tickled his lips with the vibration. He smiled and made himself sit up properly, though he immediately slouched, elbows on the table in a show of very bad manners, chin propped on his hands and blinked eyes that felt heavy with contentment. The dwarves were, in fact, staring.

"Something the matter?" he asked Fíli, who, seated next to Thorin, was eyeing his uncle in a most peculiar way.

"Uh uh," he replied, shaking his head and burying his face in his tankard, and Kíli ducked down behind his brother when Bilbo's gaze shifted to him in question. He would have questioned further, but Thorin had him abandoning curiosity when he buried his hands in Bilbo's hair and started to separate the strands with his thick, skilled fingers. Then his eyes fluttered shut and he purred deep in the back of his throat at the feel. A few moments of that, and Thorin had arranged the segments to his liking and started what Bilbo knew to be the first of five braids. 

It was odd; the feel of Thorin working his hair left him with the strange sensation of heaviness and floating at the same time, arousal curling from the base of his head all the way down his spine to pool in the space between arse and balls, a thrumming in his sternum as he became aware of his own heartbeat and his breathing deepened. Knowing that all the dwarrows were watching... well, he hadn't quite pinned down how he felt about that. Proud, maybe, or wildly triumphant, that Thorin was braiding in his claim in front of those most faithful to him. A little excitement, perhaps, at the blatant exhibitionism. He felt Thorin pause and fumble for a moment and a weight was added to the middle of his first braid. 

"Muhud 'amad," he whispered, and Thorin pressed a grateful kiss to his shoulder, repeating the blessing to his mother as he wound her engagement bead into the hair of his One. The first braid finished and fastened to hang from the left of the head, Thorin tilted Bilbo’s head to the side so he could start on the first of two braids that would run either side of his face that would mark him as, well, belonging to the line of Durin, really, almost exactly the same as Thorin's own. The first time Thorin has clarified their meaning, he had stated rather shame-faced that the exact meaning was more like akin to marking him as a possession of Thorin's, but the rushed explanation of it being meant in a very good way and in no way made him a slave or any type of object had made Bilbo giggle at the sight of Thorin nervous. It was only fair, Bilbo had said, since he did, in fact, belong to Thorin, body, heart and soul. 

The first time Thorin had braided him, Bilbo had been shocked, but with still enough moxie in him to enjoy the whole experience. This time, as he considered the implications of the braiding Bilbo feared it bordered on being almost too overwhelming. This time Bilbo was achingly aware of the significance of being Thorin’s possession. Bilbo had never really felt he truly belonged to any family in The Shire- a Took amongst the Baggins, and a Baggins amongst the Tooks. And going off with the dwarves that first time had only served to deepen the unspoken rift between Bilbo and his Hobbit kin, which hadn't been helped with his need to lock himself away from the world. He had never been able to tell anyone exactly what had happened, and in the grief of losing his husband had not, in all honesty, _wanted_ to talk about it. Those long years without his friend, lover, husband, soul had shown Bilbo in some strange, inexpressible, way just how deeply he belonged to the one so cruelly and abruptly torn from him. The sheer intimacy of being braided a second time by the one who had in all truth owned him from their first meeting, almost threatened to be too much for Bilbo, if he wasn't so determined to enjoy every second of this.

He turned his head after Thorin had finished the second braid and hummed when he started the third. He ever-so-slightly pressed his arse back into the cradle of his husband's hips, the hardness there becoming more and more prominent as he progressed with the braids. 

"I have a Durin's bead," Balin stated abruptly when Thorin was half way through the third braid. His fingers stilled and Bilbo opened his eyes to stare down the table at the older dwarf. They were all watching solemnly, quietly drinking from tankards and smoking pipes. He watched as Balin looked to his brother and cousins, all of them nodding solemnly in reply, the older dwarf turning back to hold Thorin's gaze after a decisive nod of his own. "I also have a mithril marriage bead with the royal mark." Thorin was silent a moment while he studied his kin.

"And how came you by a royal bead?" he asked, tone low. Balin's gaze flickered to the side for a second before reconnecting with Thorin's. 

"I have carried one for a while now," he said, straightening his shoulders under Thorin's hard look. "It was not unreasonable to assume that you may decide to take a Consort one day. Or one of the lads. And you have. If you had said something, I would have given it to you before." 

"It is forbidden to affix the royal mark on a bead without permission from one's king," Thorin's tone was questioning, though no hint of censure. Technically it was treason, if not done without his grandfather's say so, but if Balin -and his other cousins too, by the look of it- had taken it upon himself to make such a thing in preparation of him taking a spouse, well, for now, he was grateful for their forethought. And curious.

"Your father had it commissioned. Before he disappeared. He gave me a scale from his armour and asked that we create a bead for you. I did so." Balin's gaze was again at some point over his shoulder, and Dwalin, Glóin and Óin were all studiously keeping their attention to their ale.

"There is definitely more to that story," Thorin mused after a moment to feel his heart lurch a little in old hurt at the mention of his lost father, and his cousins all snapped their gazes to him abruptly. "I trust that one day I might know it. For now, I will take the beads gladly. With thanks."

Balin nodded and fumbled through his layers to pull forth a small leather pouch on a chain. He fumbled in the bag for a moment, and Thorin knew that the bag contained more than just the two beads his old friend removed, but he kept his peace. None of his kin had ever done anything without his best intentions foremost in their minds, so he let it be. The beads were handed down the table carefully, each dwarf along the way handling them with reverence. When Thorin finally handled the marriage bead, he saw why.

Mithril was something that had become extremely rare amongst his people since they had lost both Moria and Erebor. What Mithril had come with them from the hills had mostly been sold off, melted down and reshaped or traded for basic necessities for their people. It was probably just as well that Balin had never passed it to him before, as no doubt he would have sold it long ago, believing as he always had that he would never marry. Not until he had taken a sassy little hobbit with pretty curls on a quest to steal from a dragon. 

The bead had the tell-tale glimmer to it that told all who saw it that it was not ordinary silver they saw. The Durin's royal mark was carefully engraved between promise runes and a bonding weave, the crown with seven stars at its top, though each star in the pattern was no mere engraving, but each a tiny black stone with an odd pulsing light to them.

"What kind of stones are those?" Bilbo asked, turning his head a little awkwardly as Thorin still held a half-finished braid in one hand.

"Narkeeth Imzim." 

Bilbo regarded the stones for a moment before humming thoughtfully.

"Black fire, um, little, er, stone? No, hmmm. Nope, you got me." Thorin chuckled as he dropped the Mithril bead into his husband's hand and took the cylindrical silver bead for the Durin's braid.

"Some things do not translate well, little hobbit."

"What does it mean then, smarty pants?"

"You're teaching him Khuzdul?" Fíli interjected incredulously. Thorin raised one brow as he finished the third braid.

"I taught him some few words that were needed for our betrothal and our vows. It seems he has taught himself some more since?" He tugged on the finished braid in question before separating out the all important sections for the weave that would tell every Dwarf ever encountered that his little Halfling was most certainly taken. Bound for life with Thorin.

"No one Dwarf has broken your laws and taught me the language. There have been a few that have translated a few things for me, and combined with my own research, I have picked up enough," Bilbo reassured Fíli. "I know Iglishmêk much better. That isn't forbidden!" he exclaimed quickly when Kíli sputtered his drink. Bifur, however, banged enthusiastically on the table a moment before signing something that had Bilbo choking.

"Er, thankyou Bifur, I think." He signed back a greeting and when the table fell silent, he looked back down at the bead in his hand, rolling it gently between his fingers. It really was very beautiful.

"Narkeeth Imzim?" he asked, as Thorin deftly wove the complex pattern.

"First, what do you know of the Arkenstone?" Thorin asked and Bilbo thought for a moment.

"The Heart of the Mountain of Erebor, pride of your people before the great calamity?"

"And?" Thorin chuffed, tugging on his hair.

"It's true name is Arkin Umzam."

Thorin hummed. "Which means?"

"I don't know if it's an exact transaltion, but it sort of means 'Greatest Jewel of the Sons of the Eternal King', I think."

"Excellent," Thorin praised, reaching forward to take the bead and weave it into the strands. "What does _that_ mean?" 

"Well," Bilbo leaned back a little, surprised he was being taken through a history lesson now of all times, though it was certainly helping to keep his mind of the very inappropriate reactions he was having in front of a dozen dwarves and a wizard. "Durin the Deathless would be the Eternal King, what with his propensity for reincarnation, and his descendants, you, would be his Sons. The Greatest Jewel is pretty self-explanatory." 

"Good. Narkeeth Imzum sort of means 'Lesser Jewel of Dark Eternal Flame', though that is a truly atrocious translation. What do you make of that?" Thorin finished the marriage braid and took a moment to eye it, a feral sort of satisfaction welling inside of him to see his claim on his One. His beloved’s lovely rump in his lap was not helping things, even with attempting to distract himself with a gemology lesson.

Very lovely rump. And a well claimed husband. _Thorin's_ braids in those riotous curls.

"I suppose," Bilbo's voice startled him out of his self-congratulatory musing, and Thorin caught him throwing a smirk over his shoulder and Bilbo pressed back on the hardness under him before continuing in a light tone. "Dark Eternal Flame is either because of the glimmer effect they have, or all I've got in relation to dwarves is forge fires in the darkness of the mountain. Or metaphorical flames of life or some such. And I would say that Lesser Jewel is self explanatory as well, but I'm guessing after talking of the Arkenstone, it isn't that simple."

"Correct," Thorin praised, rewarding his love with a kiss to his shoulder. "How do our Miners find treasures amongst the stone of our mountains?"

"They can sense it. Like all Dwarves know their way when underground and your Smiths can sense tensile strength and stress weakness in metals. Your Gemologists are attuned to resonance of stones and the experienced can tell their worth with a glance."

"The Miner who found the Arkenstone, was named Glar. He was an unusual dwarf, since he staked out an area to mine that all others had passed over as worthless. He persevered, and found Arkin Umzam. After that, he was granted leave to pick any area he chose to mine. He chose to return to the area around where the Arkenstone was retrieved, and radiating out from that point, he found several veins of tiny black gems that seemed to blaze with light from within, just like the Heart of the Mountain. If the Arkenstone was the Heart, these were the Blood."

He went quiet while Bilbo turned his short history lesson over in his mind.

"So lesser gem refers to them being the smaller versions of Arkenstones?"

"Essentially."

"Wouldn't that mean that they were exclusively found in Erebor?" Bilbo puzzled, a small frown forming as he ran a hand over his new marriage braid. He hadn't managed to get one of those last time. Thorin had been too weak to do so. 

"They are," Thorin agreed, eyeing his cousins as they again made sure to be looking anywhere other than him. "How my kin came to have them, I have no idea. They were one treasure that was never traded with outsiders." He assessed the fourth braid again with satisfaction, admiring how the lamp-light in the waning twilight made tiny flashes of fire in the star stones on the royal bead, and his beloved's curls gleam a dark copper. The braids were heavy and straight against the rest of his curls and were wonderfully contrasted. None could mistake what was there should they look upon his mate. He stroked a hand through the hair behind the braid he had just finished and Bilbo twisted.

"Last one now or later?" he whispered. Thorin pressed his brow against his beloved's for a moment to consider.

He could do the last braid later. It was something often done in privacy, between lovers. Thorin was, however, finding a deep satisfaction in plaiting in front of his Company. These were the dwarves -and Wizard- that had, if not already been, true family to him. The last time he had taken this journey, the fellows around this table had become some of the most important beings on all Arda to him. Having them pay witness to his claim right now made him thrum with something primal. This, this was almost like taking Bilbo across the table right now. Laying him down on the hard wood and rutting into him for all to see. His kin, these dwarves, seeing that the pretty hobbit here was his, and his alone, belonging to the one they would call Melhekh. 

"Now, if you're agreeable," he murmured back. Bilbo smiled, naughty and understanding all at once.

"Whatever you will, my King."

Thorin suppressed a groan, locking his jaw and absolutely not allowing his hips to thrust up. As much as he enjoyed the idea of physically staking his claim here and now, there was still such thing as propriety, and his responsibility as leader of their company. Even still, his nephews seemed to have caught enough of the exchange, as they watched with expressions caught between glee and revulsion. No doubt over the years he had given them the impression of being completely sexless with his singleminded drive over the protection of their people. The sudden appearance of horndog!Uncle was somewhat disturbing, he could imagine. 

He reached up and quickly began his lovers braid. Dori sputtered when he saw what Thorin was doing and reached to try and cover the eyes of young Ori, who had whipped out a small journal at some point and was writing as fast as his hand could go, bright with fascinated fervor. Bombur tittered and Nori and Glóin whistled in appreciation.

Dwalin's reaction was by far his favourite. A look of slack-jawed astonishment followed by raucous bellows of laughter, rolling out of his chair in fits. Balin was taking the opportunity to kick him in irritation. 

"Quite bold of you, Thorin," Bofur smirked. Thorin flashed his own quirk of the lips and Bilbo outright laughed.

"You do remember who you're talking to, Master Bofur? I am not sure Thorin knows what the word 'subtle' means."

"It's an elvish term, isn't it?" Thorin teased, sparing a hand for a moment to pinch his husband's thigh, grinning at the indignant squawk it earned him.

The pattern he braided was one he had considered from very early on in the initial quest. The overly smart-mouthed burglar the Wizard had saddled them with had rattled him from the moment he stepped through a round green door. He was so pretty and soft and far too attractive, far too distracting. And the sass; nobody had talked like that to him outside his kin for a long time, and even with them there were some things he did not allow. Bilbo Baggins did not seem to care. Late at night in the quiet hours of watch duty, small ideas on different braids had crept in, unacknowledged in light of day. Their first kiss in the city of Elves had made his consciously consider a proper future with Bilbo, and as their quest continued, his design solidified in his mind. In Lake Town, after Thorin had wound in his mother’s bead, he had explained the other braids he would wind once they wed. 

The fifth braid was the Lover's Braid. Almost a love letter when completed for all to see, the actual act of putting it together was almost like reciting a dirty love letter in front of everyone. Actually allowing them to witness the looping of a series of devotion knots, a complex herringbone pattern to represent the melding of their souls... he was allowing them a very private intimate act. Not unheard of, not completely improper, just... not normally done. Dwarves were a private people, after all. But satisfying, oh, so satisfying. If only he had some gold thread or wire to weave in with the swirls representing the intensity of his passion. Or an opal to thread in as a sign of his faithfulness and loyalty.

If they succeeded in taking Erebor, he would add more. And design a clasp to put in a warrior's weave. If they took Erebor.

Finishing off the fifth braid, he secured it and growled ever so faintly at the sight. 

"So gross," Fíli muttured, and Kíli made a strangled noise of agreement, red from tip to toe. 

“Gross,” Kíli finally managed to articulate his agreement, “but it's sort of hot too, it kind of makes you think of douuuuumph…” The end of Kíli’s sentence was smothered my Fíli’s hand across his mouth , and covered by a sputtered cough from Bilbo.

"I think it's sweet," Gandalf commented mildly, and Óin guffawed loudly. 

"You would, Wizard. No other way to properly claim your One, I say. I did my Benny's hair in front of his whole family. Granted, his Da chased me around the mountain with a mattock for three days, and I weren't allowed step in their home for four years, but it was _worth_ it."

"Eeewww," Kíli groaned, burying his head in arms crossed on the table. "Óin is too old for _that_ to be hot."

"Yes, and Ma just about ripped your head off your shoulders for your cheek, too," Glóin bellowed with a boisterous laugh, slamming his fist onto the table with exuberance.

Bilbo chuckled as the whole table descended into chaos, Óin telling lewd tales of his husband Bennel from their younger days and Glóin refuting them all, the others all joining in with snipes and laughter and -on the part of Fíli and Kíli- pleas for the grossness to _stop_. He leaned back into the warm embrace of his Thorin and peppered the jaw next to his face with tiny kisses. Thorin laughed quietly at whatever Glóin was insisting was '-true, I'm telling you, the biggest one I'd ever seen, and I thought Da was going to castrate both Óin _and_ Balin!' and Bilbo closed his eyes. By Eru, he had missed this so much, it was only here, now, amongst the Company again that he recognized the depth of the gaping hole that had been left in his soul when they were gone from his life. 

"Are you alright?" Thorin asked softly, and Bilbo eyes fluttered open, feeling a bright genuine smile spread involuntarily across his face. 

"Yes, I think I am. Now." His husbands brow furrowed as he studied Bilbo's face for a second, but he must have found what he was looking for, as he returned Bilbo's smile with a happy grin of his own, followed by an affectionate nuzzle. 

Dying, it seemed, had changed a lot of things in Thorin. There was a time that Bilbo would have to work awfully hard to put even the most reserved of smiles on the Dwarf's face. That he could allow himself to be so joyous in this moment said so much, and Bilbo sent a silent prayer out to whatever force had allowed his Beloved to experience life again freed from the depression of his last lifetime.

"Enough!" Kíli wailed in response to a rather disturbing comment-with-suggestive-gesture from Óin, and ever the more dramatic of the two brothers, he threw himself across his brother and over the corner of the table towards his uncle. "Let's talk about something other than old people sex. Like Mr Boggins! Our new Bilbo-Kin is interesting!"

"Yes, excellent idea, let's talk about our new Auntie Bilbo!" Fíli agreed, shoving Kíli off him. 

"Auntie?" Bilbo asked in resignation. He should have known that was coming, since it most definitely had been an instrument of torture the last time around.

"Auntie Bilbo!" the two brothers chirped together with matching mischievous grins.

Thorin glared at his nephews half-heartedly, a hint of his own cheekiness peeking through for a second.

"Boys, don't tease your Auntie."

Bilbo mock slapped him, Thorin grabbing his hand and gently kissing his fingers with a fond smile.

"There! See, that, that there is definitely worth talking about!" Kíli exclaimed, and pointed an accusing finger. Bilbo stared at him in confusion.

"What is?"

"Thorin," Gandalf supplied. "Is acting quite out of character for himself, very..."

"UnThorinish," Fíli supplied with a nod.

"Un-Thorin-ish?" Bilbo questioned before he swallowed a snort and waved a hand when Kíli opened him mouth to give an explanation.

"You mean you're used to growly, brooding, staid, boorish, frowning, moody, snarly, morose, pessimistic, sullen, gloomy, gruff," he paused for an overly showy deep breath before continuing, "Harsh, ornery, bossy, shouting, abrupt, stubborn, bitter, stamping, snooty, grim, stoic, silently-majestic Thorin."

Ori was going to throw-up if he kept giggling and hiccuping like that. Bilbo smiled innocently over his shoulder at the dark glower Thorin was directing at him. He pointed to the black expression on his husband's face with a smirk.

"Like that, right?"

Bilbo collapsed forward with a shriek as Thorin buried dexterous blunt-tipped fingers into his sides, his whole body tilting as he squeaked and kicked uselessly, legs flying into the air as he slid onto the ground with a thump, and Thorin turned his attention away in a show of ignoring him, casually reaching for his mostly-empty mug, swallowing the last of his mead down as though he hadn't just declared war - he knew how Bilbo felt about tickling. That was a serious declaration of aggression that was. 

"See if I give you your present now," he hissed from his position flat on his back on the grass.

"Present?" Thorin asked, almost eager in his interest, reaching down to help Bilbo to his feet. 

Bilbo brushed grass off his clothes, scowling at the sheepishly apologetic expression on Thorin's face.

"I didn't think you knew we were coming?" Bombur asked, his normally earnestly pleasant face twisted in thought.

"What?" 

"You just said you had a present for Thorin. Did you know we were coming then? Why did we have to wait for Gandalf to come through before we headed here, if that was the case?"

"Oh," Bilbo blushed. "Oh, no, I didn't. I had no idea that... Er, that is to say- I mean, I do have something. For Thorin. For when I saw him. Which I didn't know if he would be you, the party coming, I mean, of whom I of course was not expecting, until today that is." 

"What kind of something?" Thorin asked suspiciously, and Bilbo froze, eyes wide with an expression he knew conveyed whole bucket loads of guilt, when Thorin's gaze narrowed.

"Bilbo, what did you do?"

Bilbo darted a slightly frantic gaze around the table, the realisation that his actions were going to get him in a lot of trouble hitting him all at once. Oh, he'd schemed and changed and planned for everything but this. Thorin _remembered_. He was in so much trouble. Unfortunately, twelve Dwarrows and an amused looking Wizard did not seem inclined to help him out of this predicament.

"Tea!" he exclaimed. "It's time for tea, I'm sure, doesn't everybody feel like tea?"

"Not particularly," Nori said blandly, keen for the impending drama he could see coming, at the same time Dori exclaimed "That would be lovely, chamomile if you have it," and Bofur proclaimed that he'd much prefer the ale, several of the others rumbling an agreement. Bilbo shook his head in exasperation; their obtuseness was not helping.

"Tea, as in the _meal_ , though I do intend to bring out a few pots to go with it," he sighed.

"We just had dinner," Dwalin frowned.

"That was at least an hour ago, closer to two by now, I should think. And it's only a light tea, just some cakes and puddings and a few other assorted sweets," he explained.

"Hobbits eat at least six meals, usually seven or more, a day," Gandalf reminded them.

"I thought you were joking!" Kíli whispered with an awe that came from being a bottomless pit of a youth.

"Well, trot it out then, lad, time's a-wastin'!"

"No! No 'tea-time' until I get the answer that my beloved is skillfully avoiding," Thorin proclaimed, and the few dwarves that had started to rise to find the hidden sweeties sank down obediently, all silent as eyes swiveled to Bilbo. "What did you do, Husband?"

Bilbo twisted his fingers together as he shifted back and forth on his feet in nervousness, avoiding the penetrating gaze of the other.

"I love you," he tried, and Thorin glared, barking out a sharp "Bilbo!" in response.

"Fine!" he huffed, crossing his hands over his chest in exasperation before he dropped them again at the deepening ire on Thorin's face.

"You know I think that you're truly magnificent with that axe of yours, it's a fine Dwarvish weapon," he began, "but-" and that was enough, it seemed, for Thorin's expression to turn to one of horror.

"Please tell me that you _did not_ -"

"It was only three cave trolls!" he butted in quickly, and then squeaked and jumped back when Thorin barreled up, grabbing for him frantically.

"You looted a _Troll Hoard_? How could you be so _stupid_ -"

"There were only three of them and they were a public menace, eating farmers and innocent travellers-" he darted around the other side of the table, while Thorin followed, stomping as he attempted to grab him.

"Only three, _Mahal_ , each one of them was at least _ten times_ the size of you, and you say 'there was only three of them'! Why, for the sake of all Arda, would you-"

"I had to at least get Sting back, and-"

" _Sting_? I could _make_ you a new letter-opener if you wanted, but instead you risked your life for that Elvish piece of shit-"

"Hey, that Elvish- _Argh_!" he darted around Gandalf, "That 'Elvish piece of shit' saved your life, if you remember-"

"Were you hurt? _Óin_ -" he made another grab for the Hobbit, who darted with a squeak back around behind Bifur, holding a hand up in defense.

"I wasn't injured, it's not like I didn't know how to dispose of cave trolls, I-," he shrieked and spun away from another attempt to catch him. "I swear! I have absolutely no injuries from those trolls, promise!"

Thorin yelled wordlessly, fists clenched.

"That, _right there_ -"

" _What?_ " Bilbo demanded, hands on his hips in aggravation, before darting sideways again when Thorin renewed his vigorous pursuit around the table.

"That, the way you say that, I _know_ you, husband-"

"I have no idea what you-"

"No injuries, ' _from the trolls_ ', that there, that is how you use that ridiculously cheeky mouth to lie-"

"I _do not lie_ -"

" _Evade the truth_ , then, how many new scars do you have since I last saw you, husband?"

Bilbo half climbed Glóin as Thorin attempted a lunge across the table at him and he shamelessly threw a spoon, which Thorin easily dodged.

"You're being ridiculous-"

"Ridiculous? My _Hobbit_ husband goes gallivanting-"

"What are you implying, what has my being a _Hobbit_ got to do with-"

"You are _small_ , husband, and _ludicrously_ frail-"

"Frail, how dare you-"

"Frail to a Dwarf! You know I think you're fierce-"

"Damn _straight_ -"

"But you attract trouble _everywhere_ you go, I cannot _believe_ that you went off on your own-"

"I can handle a few Trolls and Wargs on my own, thankyou very m-"

" _Wargs_?"

"You'd think he'd never seen me kill a Warg before," he directed in vexation at the closest Dwarf, that turned out to be Ori, watching with wide eyes and open mouth.

"I may be more impressed if the kills you had made before me were something more than holding your Elvish pin out and letting the beasts lunge at you and accidentally skewer themselves!" Thorin yelled, jumping the table again in a leap that sent Bilbo scuttling behind the ale barrels.

"I had an errand to run, and no Troll, Warg, or ravening Orc was going to get in my way of that-"

" _Orcs_?"

Thorin froze in place and then groaned, dramatically falling to the ground in a way that Bilbo had not even known he was capable of, though he supposed that Fíli and Kíli had to get it from somewhere.

"I can't take it. You've killed me. My heart's given out from the stress," he moaned, spread out on the grass with an arm thrown over his face. Bilbo crept out from behind the barrels, hovering helplessly over Thorin's fallen form.

"I- _Ach_ ," he shrieked when quick as a blink, Thorin reached up and grabbed him, tossing him over one shoulder as he stood.

"That was not fair-!" he yelled, thumping Thorin's linen-covered back.

"You are showing me these new scars I _know_ you have," Thorin demanded, stomping in the back door and through the Smial in the direction of his bedroom, dumping him unceremoniously on the bed. Bilbo glared at him, red-faced and rumpled, crossing his arms across his chest mulishly when Thorin reached for his brass buttons.

"Door," he demanded when a bakers dozen of furry faces peered through the round frame. Thorin stomped and slammed the door in their faces.

****

Twelve Dwarves and a Wizard stared amongst themselves in bemusement for a moment before they all leant in eagerly towards the wooden barrier.

"I can undress myself!" they heard, and a snort from their king.

"You're too slow, what is even the point of this-"

"You know it's a waistcoat, thankyou very much-"

"Is that a _bandage_? Mahal fucking wept, Bilbo, let me- is that _infected_? What the hell-"

"It's not infected-"

"It is _infect_ -"

"Not anymore it isn't, it's healing now, it's fine-"

"Don't-!"

There was a thump and a yelp and a clatter and "I can do it, _no!_ Bad Thorin, _bad Thorin!_ " and Dwalin lost it, face pressed into his arm as he tried to muffle his snorted chortles and gasps of " _Bad Thorin_ " and a good lot of the rest rolled aroung on the floor, trying to quiet their laughter through tears. The door was flung open and Thorin stood glaring thunderously at them all and blocking the doorway, before Bilbo darted out below his arm, nimbly leaping over Dwarven bodies while buttoning his shirt and yanking up suspenders. 

"Tea's this way!" he called, scampering off down the hall.

"This isn't over!" Thorin bellowed after him. He scowled at the giggling dwarves all around him for a moment before leaning to yell down the hall. "And I want my sword!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, now you kinda know a little about where Bilbo ran off to recently.
> 
> A google of 'Arken' will actually get you some hits on the name 'Arkin', which does in fact mean 'Sons of the Eternal King'. Crazy stuff, yeah? The rest of my Khuzdul is taken from the Neo-Khuzdul dictionary and is probably atrocious usage. Just go with it, sweeties.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... I was starting to really dread posting today's chapter, and the next couple, really, since everyone was so positive about the last chapter. The last one was apparently hysterical. These next few... well, the problem with popping in plot is actually having to deal with the plot at some point, dig? 
> 
> Don't get me wrong, I like funny. The only language spoken in my house is snark, and that is including my two-year-old son, who responds to most thing with a quick quip about your parentage (hilarious when he is insulting his siblings). But I also like the occasional bit of depth, and emotional honesty, and I like writing it. Things in this will get funny again, after I've got them through some of the messy stuff. Endure it if you want, or not. I'm really resentful of myself at the moment for letting the prospect of positive feedback and reader entertainment dictate my ability to enjoy the hell out of writing this. 
> 
> Not your problem, potential readers, completely my own weird little complex. Huzzah for the overshare... Just, if you were expecting a laugh today- well. You might want to pop out for a few chapters, yeah?

"So," Nori mused around a mouthful of cake and cream, licking the spoon with no small amount of satisfaction, "does this mean we have a burglar?"

"Yes," Bilbo nodded definitely, at the same time as a plaintively resigned "No?" from Thorin, which changed to an emphatic "Yes!" with a sharp slap to the back of the head from his beloved.

"I didn't know that you had already asked him, Thorin?" Gandalf enquired mildly, and Bilbo flinched ever so slightly, before nodding calmly.

"He made a brief mention in the kitchen before, and he really doesn't have to do more than that. I know where he is going and what he intends to do, and I am the logical choice for sneaking up on age-old fire-breathing Drakes."

The table was silent as all parties chanced a look at their leader, who was scowling at his bowl, stabbing the contents viciously and obviously holding back a comment. He jerked and yelped when Bilbo reached over and smacked him over the back of the head again.

"I didn't say anything!" he yelped.

"Makers save me from overprotective dwarves," Bilbo implored to his ceiling. "You do realise I have done this before?"

"And were almost fried to a crisp. I fail to see why you are so eager to do so again."

"You've faced a dragon before?" Dwalin asked dubiously, crumbs cascaded in an intricate pattern down the front of his shirt and a large blob of raspberry jam bobbing in his beard in time with his near constant chewing.

"I have. Smaug himself, actually." 

Bilbo moved around the table to slide a sliver of delicate torte into Ori's bowl, ignoring the gaping mouths still half-filled with various sweets and Gloin's choking. Thorin was glaring at his bowl and absolutely decimating his pie, and Bilbo thought it was quite time to relieve his husband of his spoon, before his fine Hammersley dessert setting cracked under the strain. He hummed as he selected some pastries and arranged them on a plate and relieved Thorin of spoon and bowl in one smooth move, snorting at the muttered complaints at the swap.

"Smaug. You.. Smaug. Really?" Bombur's attention had actually turned away from the food in front of him, one hand still dangling a spoon full of food.

"Almost fried to a crisp."

"Hardly," Bilbo sniffed.

"You had half the hair you started with on the top of your feet, and burns all along your ankles!"

"Yes, well, that was my own foolish fault. Who laughs at a dragon, honestly, not one of my brightest moments."

"You. Faced Smaug?" Bombur asked again.

"Why so incredulous? Master Nori, please shut your mouth, and somebody get Master Gloin a glass of water before he chokes to death."

" _Why?_ " Bofur managed to find his voice. "How, I mean... _Why?_ "

"Thorin needed to know where he was and what he was doing. I went and had a look. Found out a few very interesting things about the Wyrm, too. More custard Balin?" 

"Please," Balin replied dazedly. He opened his mouth to speak before pausing, shaking his head and digging into the creamy treat Bilbo scooped into his bowl. The rest of the dwarves seemed not to know what to say to that either, picking at their sweets with looks of confused amazement. 

Thorin opened his mouth, ready to set his kinfolk straight on a few matters that Bibo seemed to be wilfully ignoring. He closed his mouth again as he noticed Gandalf gazing at him with more than warrented interest. How much did the old man really know and how much was mere suspicion? 

For a while, the only sounds in the room were the subdued clinks of spoons on ceramics, until Bilbo sighed.

"Dragons, unfortunately, are not stupid creatures running purely on instinct, nor are they mindless beasts who live for naught but destruction. No, they are intelligent, cunning and hardy, with a cruelty that was very deliberately bred into them. Though common history would tell you that they are purely Morgoth's creatures, created for war; my research indicates that they did indeed exist before that. Slow, gentle, four legged creatures with a peaceful nature and an attraction to shiny objects, it is my belief that the Dark One saw benefit from their ability to breathe fire, and bred them to be the creatures that we know today: vicious demons with an intensified obsession with all that glitters and gleams.

"There are two sides to Smaug. He is evil, greedy and bloodthirsty, yet he is unusual for his species, in that he is quite content to live out his days in peace; more than anything, he wishes to be left alone. This complicates things. He will be desperate to defend his hoard, and infuriated by any that disturb his peace, which makes him a terrible adversary. However, there is hope that he may have grown complacent after years of being left to his own devices, and being an arrogant beast, he likely will underestimate us. He will be rash in his anger and hopefully make a mistake.

"Do not see him as weak because of this, though. He chose Erebor for a reason, and that is its vast wealth. He draws strength from the gold itself, as the gold holds its own sort of power. Physically, he uses it as armour, melding it to the vulnerable points of his body, so you can be sure that if you see a point on his body crusted with wealth, then it is likely there is a weak spot beneath. More frighteningly, he uses the wealth around him as a boost to his draconic ability, called 'dragon-spell', a form of hypnosis. He can bend those of weak mind to his will, entrance them and sow the seeds of mistrust and discord. As he draws strength from his hoard, so can he infect his treasure, and those that seek to reclaim infected treasure usually fall to greed and war. We shall have to be careful," Bilbo finished, careful not to look towards Thorin

"Especially those of us already susceptible to such weakness of the mind," Thorin bit out, and Bilbo froze for a moment, before he silently collected the almost-empty tea pot and left the room.

"What does that mean?" Ori asked timidly after a long moment of frozen silence, and all heads swiveled, a few mouths working silently, trying to find some way of saying what they were all thinking.

"The Durins, young Ori, have long had a history of gold-madness amongst their line," Gandalf mused solemnly. Ori blinked at him a moment, his head swiveling owlishly to stare at Thorin for a moment, before shaking his head and standing swiftly, frowning down at Gandalf disapprovingly.

"Our leader is too great to fall to gold sickness, you should not make such accusations," Ori defended hotly.

Thorin choked a harsh bark of laughter completely devoid of mirth.

"If only that were true, lad." He could see his whole company, every dwarf to the last of them, wondering at that statement, brow furrowing.

"Thorin?" his nephews questioned after a moment frowning.

He sighed deeply, before reaching forward to take Fili and Kili's hands in his own.

"With everything that I am, I pray to Mahal, and all his brethren Valar, that the love that the two of you hold for each other will be enough to keep you from the curse of our line."

"Uncle..."

"The worst of it," he soldiered on. "The worst is that you don't even know it has happened, you cannot even see what a monster you have become, you can't see what you're doing to the ones around you."

"You won't, Thorin, you couldn't-" Balin tried.

"I _have!_ "

A pin could have dropped in the resulting silence, and Thorin's head fell forward, hair curtaining his face, hiding in the darkness in a moment of cowardice. His voice dropped low, only just brave enough to speak of his crime aloud.

"When it starts, there is gold. So much gold, you rejoice in the knowledge that your people will live in plenty with the wealth that you stand over. No more Dwarrows wandering and begging just to feed their families, only prosperity. There is a bright future for all your kin. Relief. Hope. 

"You don't see the slide. It is so sly, the shift in your perspective, you cannot see that you have become... _possessive_ , in almost no time at all. You cannot hear how hateful and violent your words and actions become. The people close to you try and snap you out of it, but you cannot see that anything is wrong. You cannot see the monster that now lives in your body. Even when you have _your hand_..." His voice broke, head shaking back and forth in helpless denial at the memory, and he breathed deep for a moment, fists clenching so tight they turned white with the strain. His company did not speak, did not move, and he struggled, the desire to confess all and seek the penance he _needed_ warring with his guilt. "Even when your hand closes around the neck of your beloved, when you are squeezing and shaking him and your mouth spews vile hatred and you hang him from your grasp over a turret wall, sharp rocks so far below, threatening him with horrific death simply because he was trying to snap you out of your madness, even then, you cannot see that your soul is _lost_ -"

"No!" Something hit the ground and shattered, but then Thorin had a lap full of shaking husband, and he knew that this was the one person he should be begging forgiveness from, but he was such a coward, he couldn't face him.

"It wasn't your fault," Bilbo muttered into dark hair, "It wasn't you, you weren't yourself. You mustn't do this to yourself, you didn't hurt me. It wasn't you."

"I tried to kill you," Thorin hissed. "If the others below had not insisted upon your release, I would have gladly murdered you and thought nothing of it!"

"No," Bilbo denied, his whole body trembling for a second before he wrenched himself off Thorin's lap and visibly struggled to compose himself.

"This is no talk for tea time," he stated calmly, nodding to Dori and Bifur, who had pulled broom and pan from somewhere and were quickly cleaning the mess of platter off the floor out of the doorway. 

Thorin did not move, lost in the helpless realisation of how wretched this whole situation was, what little hope there was. He was a Durin, cursed already, the likeliness of his madness returning was high... and the chance that he would again attempt murder against his bonded. Perhaps next time he would succeed. He could only hope that he would again meet a swift death, and that Mahal would show enough mercy that he would allow them to be reunited again in the Halls. Should his husband even want to be reunited with him.

He was startled out of his black thoughts by Bilbo taking his hand in a decisive grip.

"You and I have things to discuss," he said quietly, tugging until Thorin stood, and led him from the silent room.

****

Bilbo led Thorin down the hall, back to his bedroom, hoping that the flock of nosy dwarves had enough sense to stay away for the next while, otherwise he would be retrieving his frying pan to knock some heads!

He was at somewhat of a loss as to what to say to Thorin to make this better. He'd had a long time to come to terms with everything that had happened between them. He'd had seventy-nine years to blame Thorin, himself, the dragon, Sauron, Morgoth and every one of Thorin's ancestors. He'd also had a lot of time to forgive. And now, here they were in this situation, where to Thorin, it was such a short time ago, so fresh and raw, and he obviously still blamed himself. Bilbo was not sure if there was anything that he could do to make that right for him.

Thorin's leathers were laid out in the chair by his bed, something he had missed when he had been brought in over Thorin's shoulder before. Now, his discarded waistcoat had been thrown over the back of the chair, draped over Thorin's fur surcoat, and for a moment, he was dizzy with the surrealism of the whole evening, reality spinning around him gently as he again reeled at the enormity of the events of the night. 

Shaking his head, he tugged Thorin over, gently pressing on his husbands chest, huffing with impatience and shoving harder when Thorin's great bulk resisted. Reluctantly, Thorin sat, and Bilbo kept pushing until Bilbo had him sitting stiffly back amongst the pillows. He sat facing him a moment, Thorin's face a mask of grim indifference, and sighed. It had been so good to see Thorin happy, so seemingly carefree tonight, like a great weight had lifted from him, and now this one hurt had him hiding again. This could not go on.

"When you had me by the throat, when you were roaring accusations of treachery and threats of terrible death, when you had me hanging over that great wall with nothing to stop my fall..." Bilbo trailed off as Thorin's eyes closed with grief, and he made a move to rise from the bed. Bilbo grabbed at his hand, yanking him down and crawling onto his lap, cupping his husband’s shorn chin until those eyes opened again met his own.

"Even then, I never believed that you would kill me. Never."

"Then you are a fool," Thorin muttered unsteadily, but his hands rose to gently encircle Bilbo's wrists, and his eyes were pleading. 

"You never loosed your grip," Bilbo told him, stroking over his husbands cheeks with his thumbs. "You so loudly insisted that you would kill me, but you never once let your grip slacken. You didn't tighten your grip either. You held me as if holding a Hobbit, not a Dwarf. You were still careful. You had a dozen weapons strapped to your person, but your hand never strayed to any of them.

"You claim that the only reason you set me down was because Gandalf came, but you were already putting my feet back on solid ground before he even revealed himself. You claim that you only let me leave because it was demanded of you, but they demanded much that day, and often, and for everything they asked, you told them where to stick it, yet all it took was one suggestion and you were sending me on my way, sending me to safety. You," he leaned forward till their foreheads were touching, rubbing his nose gently along Thorin's. "You would not, did not, hurt me. I don't think you have it in you to hurt me."

"I did though," Thorin whispered. "You left weeping. You cannot tell me that I did not hurt your heart, at the very least."

"Nothing so great that I could not forgive you easily," Bilbo insisted. "And I would hasten to remind you that this all came about when living amongst a dragon-infected pile of gold, that made you sick, that made us all sick. Thorin," Bilbo shook the head that he still held insistently. "It wasn't your fault!"

Thorin's eyes fell closed again a moment and Bilbo leant up to gently press his lips to each closed lid and then his husbands lips, just a press, careful and slow, until Thorin made an almost noiseless sound, and encouraged, he tilted his head to the side and deepened it, lips parting to gently taste and be tasted, before drawing back.

"Do you believe me?" he asked quietly, waiting for Thorin's eyes to open and focus on his again. Thorin slid his arms down to slide around his hobbit, tugging the slighter figure close in comfort.

"How can you forgive so easily?" he asked with a sigh, relaxing at the sincerity of Bilbo's argument.

"I love you. I forgave you when you stormed a battle field full of Orcs with just twelve Dwarves at your back. Thorin," he insisted, when his Dwarf frowned at him. "I have had a long time to deliberate and regret and wonder, and I know that in the end, it was not your fault. I don't think it was mine either, though you may think differently."

"No, of course it wasn't your fault. You were trying to protect us." He frowned again when Bilbo shifted nervously. "Bilbo?"

"That's just it. The- the Arkenstone. I already had it," he admitted, biting his lip in worry at the admission.

"Had it? What do you mean?"

"You know that I don't care for such wealth, don't you? You know that I am a Hobbit, that my measure of wealth comes in the form of good food and comfortable living. There really is no logical reason, if you really think about it." Bilbo paused when Thorin caught his hands, and he realised that he had twisted his fingers into the fabric of Thorin's tunic, fiddling nervously. Mentally admonishing himself for his cowardice; Bilbo made himself raise his gaze to his husband's.

"I found the Arkenstone just after we retook the treasure room. Before you even set the others to looking; I knew in my heart that I had no use for it, and even if I did, it wouldn't take a lot to convince you to let me have it if I really wanted it. But I still, I still put it into my pocket. I justified it by telling myself that you had promised me a fourteenth of the treasure, that it was just my share. I didn't need it. But I took it and hid it from you anyway. It was only later when the elves and men were making threats that I, I don't know, snapped out of it? Even then, I am not even sure that I wasn't being vindictive when I took the stone to parlay. I don't know."

Thorin wasn't saying anything, just watching him with an expression that Bilbo didn't really recognise, and he hoped sincerely that he wasn't about to make a liar of himself when he said that Thorin couldn't hurt him. The Arkenstone had meant everything to Thorin last time; it was possible that this new perspective of thing may change his mind about Bilbo's betrayal again. There was nothing for it though. They could not continue on a lie, after all.

"I stole it, Thorin. I stole from you. I stole the heirloom of your family, the symbol of the might of Durin's folk. I stole it."

Thorin still hadn't said anything, but his arms were still relaxed and wrapped around his waist, his breathing calm and even. 

"That gold was truly cursed, wasn't it?"

"What?" Bilbo started.

"If I had the Arkenstone here with me right here, right now, and gifted it to you right this second, you would dubiously take it from me, reassure me that it was very pretty, while thinking 'what am I supposed to do with such a thing?', am I right?"

Bilbo stared at him a moment, his head tilting as he thought. The scenario Thorin had presented was, well, spot on really. He laughed. This was truly such an absurd situation that they were in.

Thorin was grinning at him, and it just made Bilbo laugh all the harder. All that kerfuffle over a stone. Honestly.

"Utterly ridiculous, yes?" Thorin chuckled. His smile turned warm and tender then, and Bilbo felt his heart jump at such a thing directed at him. "You were never at fault, my Hobbit. I could never direct blame at your for such a thing. Especially knowing two important things. Pay attention now dear," he teased, tweaking Bilbo's nose. "You amaze me, you know. You admit to being just as taken by Dragon-sickness as the rest of us, while failing to acknowledge the ease of which you escaped it when the lives of those around you were on the line. You are so good, through and through. It only makes me adore you more.

"The second important thing you should know is this, my burglar." He tweaked Bilbo's nose again, smile rueful. "I had all our Company searching for the thing as soon as possible for the sole purpose of gifting it to you. A Dwarf traditionally collects the most valuable items he possesses to present to his Betrothed to prove his wealth during courting. I wanted the Arkenstone to gift to you to speed our Courting along. It would have been yours, no matter your actions."

"Even knowing that I would tell you it was very pretty and wonder what on earth to do with the thing?"

"Yes, even knowing that, you silly Halfling," Thorin huffed, and Bilbo descended into giggles as Thorin took advantage of Bilbo's vulnerable sides with his fingers.

"Stop, you horrible creature!" Bilbo cried, trying desperately to escape the wandering digits finding all his tender spots. Thorin suddenly seized his waist, flipping them over and settling his body carefully on his husband's.

"I don't want us to continue on with the Arkenstone between us," he whispered, achingly vulnerable. "I know I need not say it, but I am sorry, so very sorry, love. I am praying that if I venture forth to our mountain again, that having experienced that brand of madness before will prevent me from falling again. But, if you ask it of me, than I shall pass on the quest to the others, and stay here with you. Just ask."

"Thorin-"

"I've put you through enough. Haven't I? I have asked, demanded so much of you before, ask me for this, and you will have it."

Bilbo held his gaze solemnly for a moment before nodding slowly, a hand coming up to brush a grey-streaked lock from his face.

"Thank you. But you never have to ask such a thing of me. I would not abandon out friends, our family on this venture, knowing what it is they face. And I would not ask you to do the same. I have followed you across all of Arda before, why not again?" He smiled at the conflicted relief on Thorin's face, drawing him down by the convenient handholds his braids presented, pressing his lips to Thorin's, until his husband softened, and Bilbo felt the tension slip away from his again. 

"Besides," he said, drawing back with some reluctance. "We have been given another chance with whatever has happened to send us here. I'm still not entirely sure what this is, other than it may be entirely Elrond's fault, if not a rather elaborate hallucination brought on my dementia. Either way, I believe that we have a responsibility here, and much to make right. We can't do that from my Hobbit-hole, no matter how much I would like it."

Thorin studied him a moment, brow furrowed. 

"Dementia..." he said slowly. "Husband, how... how long has it been since we saw each other? For you?"

The stricken look made sorrow clench in Thorin's gut, and he eased them both up, facing his husband and bracing himself.

"Tell me."

****

An hour later, Bilbo's tear stained face was buried in Thorin's neck, while the dwarf stared sightlessly at the ceiling. Bilbo had come back _seventy-nine years_ (approximately), and all that had happened in that time... Thorin was currently warring back and forth between shock, sorrow and bitter rage at all his little love had endured over the years. His death had only been the start of his sorrows, and it all seemed to centre around that damnable ring. Bilbo's funny little magic ring that had seemed to be such a useful little treasure back when they had been slogging their way to Erebor. And Thorin had encouraged him to use it. Bugger it all.

"Where is it now?" he asked quietly. Bilbo sniffled a little, all his limbs tightening where they were wrapped around Thorin like he may run.

"Hidden. Don't- don't ask, I can't-"

"No," Thorin interjected. "Just tell me it's safe. That nobody will find it."

"I can't guarantee that. There is something about it... it likes to be found. It manipulates everything around itself to be found. But for now... yes. I believe for now it will be safe. For a time."

Thorin stared at the ceiling some more. 

"This is more important than Erebor. The ring has to be taken care of first."

Bilbo's head rose from its nest, a look of disbelief on his face.

"Firstly, I almost can't believe you said that. Death has changed you a fair bit, hasn't it? Second, I think you are wrong."

"Bilbo, Sauron is a far greater threat -for every creature on Arda, not just Dwarves- than a dragon. Smaug isn't going anywhere, but if the Dark One's Disciple is rising, then we must face that threat first."

"We have time, he didn't start to move for many years from now. And as for Erebor... have you never wondered, Thorin, why Gandalf was so determined for you to reclaim the Lonely Mountain?"

Thorin frowned at the ceiling. 

"What do you mean?" 

Bilbo propped his chin on Thorin's chest, a pensive expression on his face. He was silent a long while, carefully picking his words.

"Gandalf... he is one of the Maiar. From what I have come to understand from my observations and some insistent nagging for answers from the old bat out there, they have a sort of advanced sixth sense, a forewarning of destined events. They know when darkness is coming, and their primary duty is to fight that, whatever way they can.

"Erebor... is a strategically important position. Between Mirkwood, Erebor and the Iron Mountains, Gondor, Rohan, Fangorn Forest and Lorien, Mordor is completely cutoff from the West and the North. If even one point of that strategic net was to fail, if Sauron's forces can get behind the Men, Dwarves and Elves, I believe that Middle Earth would fall. I have to wonder if Gandalf is driven by instinct and portents we don't understand, to move to the defence, on all fronts. To him, Erebor must be secured.

"Beside that, there is also the issue that above all else, Smaug is a dragon, and dragons are beings of Morgoth. Sauron, as his living disciple, may have the power to call on Smaug. If he does, than he already has a serious weapon behind the line of defense. Mirkwood would fall quickly, harried from both sides while fighting darkness within, and I have no doubt that Sauron would use the dragon primarily to rid himself of the Elvish threat, as dragons were made to in the first age. Middle Earth would fall quickly."

Bilbo reached to snag Thorin's chin then, forcing their gazes together, eyes intent.

"It's not just the location, either. It's the alliances. The only dwarves to come to the council at Rivendell to discuss the ring, were Durin's folk from Erebor. Gloin came with his son, and Gimli was instrumental in the quest. I know that they came because of the peace treaties that had been established after Erebor was recovered. The people of this world can do much if they stand together. We take Erebor, stand with the Men of the region and the Elves, and that region is secure as it can be. We need that, whatever we decide to do."

Bilbo let Thorin's chin loose and rested his own chin back against his chest, and Thorin let his head fall back to stare at the ceiling again. Unfortunately, the smooth glossed wood held no answers, and he let out a heavy breath, rubbing a hand heavily over his face, shutting his eyes tight. 

If he had still been the dwarf he was when he had first showed up at Bilbo's door, even knowing all this information was true; he probably would have discarded the idea of forging strong alliances with Men and Elves for the good of all of Arda. He had set out for Erebor angry and bitter and believing that the only way for his people to be was to hold to the creed that the Khazad were for the Khazad. He was not even sure, had he survived the Battle on the fields of the Lonely Mountain, whether he would have been less prideful then, or whether he would have been a disaster in regard to all the events that Bilbo had described. Would he have eventually made peace with the Elves and the Men? Or would he have ignored the call when the world fell to war? 

This second turn at life... it was humbling. His husband had lived out an age that he had not, seen the power of world shift, and shift again, and Thorin could not ignore his council, could not allow himself to be the bitter, angry, flawed being that had set out that first time for his homeland. All that rested on them now, he felt small in a way that a lifetime of begging for scraps of mercy for his people had not. This was an even larger burden placed on his shoulders. And yet, Thorin could not overlook the blessing this was, could not waste his chance on past ills and old grudges.

Bilbo said that Arda needed strong bonds between the peoples across it to survive. If there was to be hope for a future, whether they would be permitted to live it or not, then Thorin would have to trust Bilbo.

"What do you think we should do?"

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... obviously, Bilbo is lying his arse off about popping out to see Smaug at the request of Thorin. He's trying to use knowledge gained from their first attempt at the mountain to help them all survive the second try. That with the research that he *head canon* did after with the elves in a slightly morbid sense of fascination gives him a unique outlook on the situation. Just in case anyone was wondering on his phrasing here.
> 
> Dragon spell and the infecting of gold with obsession is Tolkien canon. Why do you think that whole business with the Battle of Five Armies happened?
> 
> As for the mention of the Hammersley, well, I just adore the idea of the great hulking Dwarves all sitting down for a fine tea served on the best Victorian Violet tea set sitting in the lovely yellow dining room, on their best behaviour because they are being served sweeties. The things that Dwarves will do for sweeties... I snort tea out my nose at the thought. I know that technically a fine English tea setting inspired by the lovely *snorts* Queen Victoria doesn't exist in this scenario, but seriously... the lols. THE LOLS!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still tapping away at this, darlings. More is coming- I had hoped to at least have them leave the Shire before the next movie came out! I also have a whole 'nother fic that I was planning on polishing up and posting before the next movie, mostly because it starts right after the first movie ends, and I didn't want to be influenced on where I thought it should go. Unfortunately, it is Christmas and my family seems to have gone completely crazy, so.. not happening. But thankyou to all the lovely people that have expressed enjoyment of Epic lately, you're all wonderful.
> 
> Oh, and I hoped that it went without saying, but just in case nobody is getting it, when Bifur speaks with his cousins, just assume he is speaking in Khuzdul, yes? None of this italics crap. You're smart cookies, I don't have to spell that out, do I?

For the Dwarves of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, this was turning out to be, well... not quite the quest they thought it would be.

Thorin, son of Thráin, was not the dwarf they thought he was.

The dwarves were quiet for a while after Thorin had been dragged away by his astonishing husband. None of them were quite sure what to think of what had just happened. Gold sickness. Thorin, named Oakenshield, known as one of the greatest Kings to come of the line of Durin, had succumbed to the sickness.

"Well," Nori was the first to break the silence. "What do we make of that?"

"Is it possible?" Ori asked in a hushed voice. "Could Mister Thorin really have been taken by the Haze?"

"No Dwarf in his right mind would threaten his One so, lad. If he did as he said, then he must have been lost to the sickness," Balin said, patting the slightly shaking youngen' on the back before turning to the youngest Durin-sons, both sitting still and quiet, staring at nothing. One who didn't know the exuberant boys might think they were fine, but for the tight grip of their hands that were clutched between them. Bofur stood when he saw where Balin was looking.

"Hey lads," he asked with uncharacteristic gentleness. "You alright there?"

Kíli blinked for a moment before turning to his brother, tugging on his hand. "Fí?"

Fíli shook his head then, seeming, to come out of something, he opened his mouth to speak, looking around at their companions, before his mouth snapped shut again. He shook his head a second time and stood, tugging Kíli with him, and led him from the room. The rest of the Company heard the front door shut a moment later. None moved to follow. With an understanding that needed no words, they understood to a Dwarf that, at a moment such as this, the boys would be their own best comfort. 

"Did you lot know about this?" Dori asked after a moment, looking between the Fundin and Gróin cousins, stink-eyeing them through their wordless denials before turning his glare on the wizard, Gandalf quietly smoking in the corner. 

"Tharkǔn. Did you know of this?"

Gandalf seemed to be ignoring him for a time, smoke wisping around his head as he stared into the flames of the lantern in the corner. Finally, he sighed.

"The possibility was always there. The curse is strong in the family of Durin. Thorin is much like his Grandfather, in many ways. But, no, I was not aware that such a thing had already come to pass."

"So... what do we do?" asked Bombur. "What does that mean for the quest?"

"What, do you want us to turn back?" Glóin demanded. "You signed a contract!"

"I'm not suggesting-"

"There's nothing to be done, there is no known cure, or preventative, for gold sickness," Óin stated firmly.

"But if the Burglar is right, then the gold is already cursed. We'll all fall!" Ori fretted.

"I think we're all forgetting something important here!" Glóin roared.

"And what is that?" Bofur asked tetchily, the normally jovial dwarf frowning in worry.

"Even if Thorin has been gold sick before, and not too long ago I'd wager from what I've seen. Even if he has been... He isn't _anymore_." 

There was silence at that realisation. Gold obsession wasn't exactly unknown to dwarves, a race that prided itself on obsession with anything that glitters and shines. And of course, it was well known that Durin's line had been cursed; that the direct ruling line seemed to inevitably fall once a few years on the throne, though the source of the curse differed between telling. What was _not_ common, was recovering from such a thing. 

Thorin had recovered.

They all fell silent again, each falling to their own solitary ponderings of their king.

*****

 

It was quite a feat within Dwarven society to become renowned for one's deeds early on in life. Dwarrows coddled their young and protected them viciously, and no matter how young a dwarf was fully grown into their adult body, they would not be considered of-age until 80 years, and therefore, rarely put in situations where they could earn a name for themselves. Unless of course, one was forced into such a situation at too young an age.

The name of Thorin II, son of Thráin II, Crown Prince of the Mighty Empire of Erebor had been known throughout all the Dwarven empires of Arda for a long time. He was intelligent and cunning, and skilled at the forge from a young age. Thrór, filled with pride at such a fine heir, had set him to the duties of a Prince of Erebor at just 16, and it was immediately apparent that this child possessed a cunning wit, a great intelligence and a fine strategic mind; he would be a mighty King of the Khazâd, a gift from Mahal that promised a prosperous future for their people. The line of Durin was again blessed, and the line secure.

The dragon came when Thorin was just 24 years into his life.

The first of Thorin's many accomplishments, it was he who had recognised the signs of the Dragon's approach early enough that many had been saved through the sheer advantage of several minutes early warning, far more evacuated than had they not known before the beast was knocking on the door. For that alone, his name would have been praised, and he need not have done any more than help the many families flee their home. None expected more than that from a dwarf still considered a child.

Instead, the prince had led a contingent of Dwarves against the beast, and none could fault him for the failure to stop the Dragon's charge; there was not a battle commander on earth that could have led an effective defence against such a thing, and the losses again, were none his fault. If anything, again, his actions had been strong and gallant and bought them a few more minutes and a valuable distraction to evacuate the lower levels.

From there, the Prince could have again fled, but did not. When witnesses had seen him race further into the mountain, rather than from it like all other able Dwarves were doing, some had despaired, thinking that the brave young Thorin had rushed to further confront the beast. Not long after, though, the events became clear, when it was found that Thorin had ordered the great cavernous roof of the treasury opened, rather than locked down. The Dragon had not been able to resist all that gold, bare and open for his pillage, and had abandoned his destructive storming to dive straight for the hoard. This action had saved many more lives, as the dragon ignored the remaining dwarves in favour of the gold. 

Most importantly, Thorin had ventured into the treasury then, to retrieve the King, risking his own life for his liege. His retreat had been with the aged Thrór dragged behind, as Thorin had managed to set off the last of the warning signals to reach the miners that were in the deepest parts of the mountain. There were dwarves that had not known anything of the Dragon until those warnings had gone off. More lives spared, more family members reunited on the surrounding plains.

For all his actions that day, Thorin's name would be sung on a praise for the rest of his days. Such a young age, and already known for his dedication to his people, all his greatest traits brought to the light by his heroic actions. If not for the fact that they were homeless, that would have been the end of it.

Sadly, it was not the last time that Thorin would have to prove his worth to his people, to all Dwarves.

Wandering, the former residents of the Lonely Mountain were helpless. With no aide from their allies, the peoples of Erebor needed someone to guide them. They turned to their King. And while Thrór did his best, he was an aging dwarf, and grieving for the loss of his kingdom- his gold. Thráin and Thorin were the figureheads now, and while Thráin was a fearsome warrior and an outstanding strategist, in this he was somewhat lost. Again, Thorin was the Dwarf that they people looked to, organising and strategizing, desperate for a solution for the people. He sent envoys to all the nations of the Dwarrow empire, asking for them all to take an equal portion of the refugees. They agreed to aid. But no empire was big enough to take enough of the people to save them all, even with a large bulk of the women and children being sent to their Kin in the Iron Hills, including Thorin's pregnant mother, and at least half the refugees remained homeless and lost, completely dependant on their King and his Kin to guide them. And they did.

For ten years, they were camped on the plains of Dunland, and Thorin was busy all those years, organising and begging and lowering himself far lower than any would expect of the line of Durin, just to put food in the bellies of their weakest. The loss of their homeland had made something crack within the once great King Thrór, and he foolishly wandered into Moria alone, and was slain by the Defiler, his body mutilated. Thráin, enraged at the dishonour called all the dwarves of all nations to his side, and thus began the long three year War of Dwarves and Orcs. Through the mountain caverns the battles raged, and Thráin and his son led the charge. Thorin was known as a great warrior and fierce tactician before he had even hit his fiftieth year, just past half way to adulthood. 

Though Moria was not won, and thousands of Dwarves perished, the War was still counted as a great Victory, and Thorin one of its great Heroes, though it was a defeated band of Durin's folk that stumbled away from the cursed gates of Azanulbizar after the final battle, Thorin's younger brother -another impossibly young lad- lost, the Lord Fundin and so many, many other great Dwarves of their people gone for all time. And a heartbroken King Thráin too lost in grief to be a leader to his people.

For the Dwarves of the lost Erebor -though Thorin was still technically a boy, and Thráin King by blood- the Prince became thereon their leader . He led them back to kin in Dunland, and then through the West to the Blue Mountains, he led them through harsh times of cold and starvation, he led them through becoming a people of the mountains again, through the disappearance of Thráin in his disastrous attempt to retake Erebor. He housed them, he sacrificed and lowered himself to Men to feed them, he went above and beyond to keep the remains of a once great people safe. And that, more than anything else, was what made him one of the greatest Dwarves of their time. The Dwarves of Durin had followed him faithfully, because he had more than earned their faith, more than proved his worth. 

Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, King under the Mountain, was a true leader of their people. And the dwarves of his Hills were more than ready to follow him wherever he led.

It had been a matter of much hushed conversation that Thorin had never once taken a mate. He could have had his pick of any of the Dwarves. It was far from hidden that many had offered themselves, but he'd never taken any one of them to his bed, let alone into his heart. 

Balin sighed, the memories melting away again as he watched his King stomp out of the home of the one that apparently was his husband -after quite a long time locked away in that husband's room. Said husband had come out about ten minutes ago, and seemed to have been keeping himself busy puttering around the kitchen attending to various things. Now, the little Hobbit husband stood in the doorway to the parlour watching their leader leave with a look of sorrowed indecision, before hesitantly turning back to the kitchen.

"Don't worry yourself so, cousin," Óin murmured, patting Balin comfortingly on the arm. "He'll come good."

"Aye, brother," Dwalin huffed where he stood nearby, arms crossed and scowling at the door. "Dís said it herself weeks ago. He's more himself lately than he has been in a century." He shifted, eyes distant for a moment. "It's been good to see."

Thorin's four cousins had been his closest companions his whole life. Óin, Glóin, Balin and Dwalin were all close kin to the line of Durin, and they had grown up chasing after Thorin and his hell-raising younger brother; they all well remembered with fondness the somewhat carefree lad he had been. But even they were absolutely astonished that their stoic cousin apparently had it in him to dramatically play up a collapse to capture a slippery little hobbit.

If they weren't worried he'd had a mental break, they would be overjoyed. As it was, it was a little difficult not to feel relieved at the sight of their cousin seemingly carefree and happy for a time. 

"No offense to you, Balin, but you've no One of your own yet," Glóin said. "You can't know the crushing guilt of feeling you've failed your beloved, even if your offense is a minor one. Whether that little thing in there has forgiven him or not, he'll need a bit to get over the memories." He leaned forward then, from where he stood next to Dwalin, lowering his voice further. "And then there's... You were there, cousin, when Thrór... well. You saw what that did to young Thorin, watching the descent. And now, to discover that he's been touched the same, the one thing he has feared above all else! If we'd just known!" he fretted, shifting a little in distress at the perceived failure in his duties.

"We none knew," Balin absently soothed, "or we'd have helped as we could. He's handled it marvellously, though. I cannot help but wonder, though, as to whether tis a driving force behind this sudden desire to retake Erebor." He continued when the others all looked at him to elaborate. "Is this all so he can test himself? Does he mean to measure his worth as a true King of our people?" 

"Would it matter?" Dwalin grunted. "We'd follow regardless."

"Of course we'd follow," Balin snapped. "But if this whole quest was motivated by some ridiculous notion of proving himself, after everything he has already done-"

"There'd have been nothing we could have done to convince him otherwise," Óin interrupted. "Boy's always had an inadequacy issue a mile deep. Without cause!" he defended when his brother and cousins all glared at him. "It's probably genetic; you know they say that father-Durin used to lock himself up to brood for weeks on end." 

Glóin huffed a laugh at that. 

"Did you forget that we're direct descendants ourselves, brother?"

"The younger Durin siblings are never so afflicted. We come from superior stock," Óin replied snottily, sticking his nose in the air. The others cackled for a moment, the tension bleeding away to something fond and familiar. They were the King's finest, indentured with Thorin's protection when they were just boys themselves. Come what may, they would tackle it the same way they always did. 

"Well, all three of the less superior stock are out brooding at the moment. Should we intervene?" Balin asked, snuffing his pipe and setting it aside.

"What do you think?" Glóin asked, Dwalin already heading for the door.

****

Bifur and his cousins were not of Durin's folk.

A few years back in Ered Luin, there had been a bit of a muckety-muck of a situation being stirred up, rumours going around of Broadbeams and Firebeards not respecting the Longbeards and their rightful King, Longbeards hearing that the Firebeards and Broadbeams wanted them gone from what was technically their ancestral home. The rumours had come down to some outsiders who wanted... something, Bifur had never heard two stories told that seemed to coincide and never cared enough to try, but in the end, he knew whatever plan that had been cooked up was bound to fail, no matter how much discontent others tried to brew. Outsiders just didn't understand.

Despite Thorin Oakenshield of the Durin line being of a different clan, and his people being, technically, squatters on Broadbeam land, there were really, very few dwarrows alive that wouldn't look at Thorin son of Thráin and see a good Dwarf. And those who didn't... they weren't worth speaking of.

Besides, the few Broads and Fires that remained were pretty much squatters themselves, eking out the barest of existences in mountains broken and crumbling with time. The world had not been kind to a people that depended on deep mountains to survive, and most of the remains of the two clans had either followed their Kings whole eras before to establish mountains far, far to the East, across the Empty Lands, or been welcomed by the Longbeards back when Moria had been a place of plenty- half the Broadbeams and Firebeards were _from_ Erebor, after all, descendants of those that fled Moria to the Grey Mountains, and then on to the Lonely Mountain. And no Broad or Fire had forgotten the generosity of the Durin clans when their peoples had been displaced then. It had been a privilege to welcome the poor refuges of the Longbeards when they had sought refuge in what had once been the beautiful mountain city of Gabilgathol, poor lodgings that they were now, but no decent Dwarf would forget a debt of honour. 

Those of lost Erebor weren't ungrateful, so relieved to have somewhere to belong, a mountain to soothe the souls of the weary. They paid their gratitude with what meagre generosity they could, sharing what supplies they could acquire, pooling resources and skills, to the point that the mixed community that had grown there had become somewhat plentiful, at least to the point where they all had a warm place to sleep and food for their bellies, even if they all had to work themselves raw to keep that comfort.

And the Dwarf at the forefront, clawing his way almost desperately toward prosperity, was Thorin, son of Thráin of the Longbeards. No Broadbeam of Firebeard of Ered Luin was ever going to forget that. They were one community now, forged together in lean times. Outsiders really didn't stand a chance.

For Bifur, though thankful like the rest of his clan, it was something more that had him packing himself up to follow the Dwarf he would call King on what was most probably a mission to their deaths. For Bifur, it was all about family.

The axe in his head had been there for an awfully long time. A random orc raid, decades back, had resulted in his unfortunate situation now, and while most non-Dwarrows saw it as a deformity, a source of fascinating disgust and pity, Bifur truly didn't mind it. His Uncle Nifur had taken him in after the attack, his own Da not surviving the attack, and he'd been nursed back to health by the beautiful dwarrow-dam that was his Aunt Clar, Bofur and Bombur's mother, who even now awaited news of them back in Ered Luin. When Nifur had died some years back, Bofur had settled himself into the roll of Bifur's protector, despite Bifur being a few decades older. They had lived as close as siblings for years by then, and Bofur knew quite well that despite the occasional irritation from miscommunication with Men, Bifur found the axe in his head to be somewhat of a blessing. He could play dumb when he was uninterested in conversations or trying to get away with a prank, get away with the odd bit of bad behaviour and blunt speaking, play crazy to keep lechers away from pretty Aunt Clar, and was constantly underestimated by any fool that would seek to take advantage or cause harm to his kin. Best of all, he was _quite_ the hit with the ladies. After all, the proof of his tenacity and strength as a warrior were always on display, and caused the lovelies to croon in sympathy at him, and it was especially effective when sitting whittling his odd toys with his nieces and nephews clambering all over him, showing his sweet and sensitive side as well. Oh yes, despite losing his beloved Adad, the axe to the head had ended up being a hell of a benefit over the years. His ma had always told him to look on the bright side of life, after all. 

Bofur, however, still fancied himself a protector of Bifur and Bombur, and Bifur could not dislike that, no matter how amused he and Bombur were by it at times. He'd stepped up as the head male of their small family when Nifur passed, and worked himself raw in the mines, earning himself a reputation and some excellent status over the years for his ability to tap the best of the currently producing zinc and lead ore mines, which had helped their Dwarven community thrive. Lead was something that Men could not produce, as they tended to grow quite sick when exposed to the raw materials, where Dwarrows did not. That, with the Zinc contributing to a thriving Brass production had made it difficult for the Men to resist trading with them, and steep prices and ridiculous demands in exchange for basics had become far rarer than they had once been. 

When Bofur had fallen ill one year, rare as that was for a dwarrow, Bifur had not known what to do. Those with healing skills were rare in the mountain, and those that had them still had to work for a living, same as any other dwarrow, and having to move around to do so meant there were times that healing was just not available. Bifur had knocked on dozens of doors, trying so desperately to find one who could help. Bifur had managed to scare the gypsum out of some young lass whose door he had half smashed down in his worry- and apparently, completely the wrong door. The guard had been called by neighbours, and that is when he had met Dwalin.

Dwalin he had seen around. He'd knocked pints with the Dwarf a few times at the local, but never gotten to the stage of exchanging names or even doing much more than grunting at each other. He was a familiar enough face though, that Dwalin had not immediately tossed him in the tank with the local drunks. Instead, the guard had taken him to Thorin, who after hearing Bifur's story, had sent a rider to a nearby town of Men to retrieve their cousins, one of which had learned the healing arts and herb lore from his Mam. Bifur had been so overwhelmed he'd fallen to his knees and sobbed his relief at the boots of the Prince, much to the other's embarrassment.

Suffice to say, Bofur had been fixed up fast as you could blink by the Prince's cousin, and Bifur had sworn to himself that one day he would do all he could to repay the kindness shown to his kin that day, no matter how the Prince had insisted he was merely making sure to prevent an outbreak. 

When it had come time for volunteers to come forward for the quest to Erebor, Bofur at first had been undecided on whether to step up, his self ascribed duty to his family staying his natural inclination to lend a hand where necessary. No, it had been Bombur that had been the one to push for it, the Engineer of the family. He had been part of a group that had made great strides in keeping living quarters stable and safe in an unstable mountain, and Bifur and Bofur had known that Bombur would stand a good chance of being picked for that background alone. It was then that Bofur had decided to volunteer as well, determined to protect his baby brother, and confident that his own background would make him an attractive pick. "Besides," he often remarked flippantly when Bombur would object that he had not been a child for _many_ a year and didn't need protecting, "they reckon the beer is free!"

For Bifur, all he had to offer for the quest was his pig-sticker, and whole bucket loads of devotion. He'd worried over dearest Aunt Clar, but the Princess Dís had proclaimed that family left behind would be cared for and under her protection, and Bifur hadn't hesitated. He'd marched off to bully Dwalin into taking him to Thorin and sworn himself and his cousins to the cause. The council had not been able to reject them, and members of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield they had become. 

What a riot that had turned out to be. The Hobbit's place had turned out to be all sorts of interesting, and a hell of a lot of comfortable. His youngest cousin was currently helping him work through a pile of savoury scones and a plate of pastries that were filled with some sort of berry that Bifur had never had before, but was absolutely delicious. Bofur, the 'I only drink Ale' git was currently pretending that he wasn't slurping down every drop of the lovely flowery tea with the pot of honey that Thorin's curly-haired husband had convinced him to try when they had first sat down. 

The three of them weren't entirely sure what to do once the Company had broken up in the wake of the King's announcement of his own Gold Sickness. Bifur knew that Thorin's expectations from his confession would be accusations or for the Company to see him as somewhat lesser than formerly. For Bifur, though, there was nothing for him to be ashamed of. If anything, it made Thorin more... real, he supposed. Someone who was capable of falling prey to faults of their line, and still drag himself up from such a thing. And spoke of it as a blight on his own character, with a revulsion that spoke of an inner conviction to never fall victim to such a thing again. If anything, Bifur admired him all the more for it.

Now, though, Bifur wanted more than anything to help. He could see the Prince's cousins worrying amongst each other in the hall, and was himself growing somewhat concerned that the youngest Durins had not yet returned to the house. Bofur, he knew, had grown very fond of the young lads, and was itching to go follow them to make sure they were alright. And Bombur, the soft-hearted one amongst them, had clearly moved on to worry-eating, much like Bifur had. His stomach was feeling rather stretched from two of the best meals he had ever experienced in his life, but he couldn't seem to stop mimicking Bombur in the nervous picking at the still-laden tea table. 

"You want to go and find the nephews, don't you," Bifur asked quietly, licking some berry off his thumb and startling the other two out of their individual morose musings. Bofur blushed for a moment when Bombur looked at him with his eyebrow raised. 

"I don't have a crush or anything," he protested at Bombur's smirk. Bombur and Bifur both sniggered for a moment at his outraged expression. "They're _bonded_."

"We know you don't," Bombur giggled. "You just have that great protective streak in you, two leagues wide, and you can't help yourself. Mahal knows why you picked those two terrors as your little birdies to mother, though."

"They're good lads," Bofur defended. "They remind me of us when we were younger."

" _We_ ," Bombur argued incredulously, "were _never_ like that. I'm surprised Lady Dís hasn't killed them yet."

"Actually," Bifur interjected, "they do sort of remind me of the two of you. You were right terrors when you were young. I never saw Clar laugh so hard than the day Bom tied my Da's boots to the dinner table and the whole thing went over with him when he got up. You two spent the night hiding so you wouldn't get your hides tanned."

"I remember that," Bofur snickered. "The last of the stew went all down Uncle Naf's neck, and his hounds were all over him trying to lick it all off. Aunt Brun was still around then, and she slipped Bom a whole bag of sweeties the next morning. Best prank he ever pulled."

Bombur tried very hard to keep his frown, but a smile slipped through at seeing his cousin and brother laughing so. 

"Come on Bom," Bofur laughed. "You're just stilled peeved about the incident with the phosphorous at your excavation site last month."

"Terrors," he muttered at the reminder, smile slipping to a full grin as his kin continued to laugh. Their light merriment died when they saw the Hobbit appear from the hallway, solemnly heading to the kitchen. None of the concerned Durins in the hall made to follow, though they seemed tempted, and although Bifur could hear faint snippets of Dori fretting to his siblings in the cosy sitting room, they too did not follow. None went seeking their absent leader, either.

"It's a fine mess we find ourselves imbedded in, isn't it lads?" Bofur mused absently as he finished tamping the lovely maple pipe Bifur had carved for him, pulling a few slivers of wood from his pocket and lighting one with the lamp closest. 

"You love interesting messes," Bifur grumbled as he watched Bofur light his baccy with expert swirls of his improvised match and deep puffs. He moved the plates they had been snacking on away from Bombur's reach, covering a few dishes with covers and muslin clothes to keep them fresh, snickering at Bombur's little whine of disappointment and again at his hum when Bofur stuck the pipe in his mouth.

They sat silent for a while longer, only looking up again when a fuming Thorin stomped out of the hall and headed for the front door, barking in irritation at the Wizard when he stepped out to speak to him. They watched further as the Durin cousins spoke amongst themselves a few more moments before they all gathered themselves to follow.

"An interesting mess, indeed," Bofur muttered, staring after the departing Dwarves. 

"I'm with him to the end," Bifur informed his cousins quietly. "I swore a debt to Thorin, and I swore to follow. And he deserves to be followed."

"We aren't going anywhere, cousin," Bofur reassured him, face soft. "Ya great softy. Mother-henning the lads I may be, but by jingles, you have the biggest soft spot for the elder Prince."

"He's a good Dwarf and he's had it rough," Bifur defended. "I know we all got a story," he continued when Bombur looked a little mulish. "There aint a dwarf amongst our hills that doesn't. We've all had it hard. But he shoulders it all like it comes down to him. I've seen it. That's a heavy load for any to carry." He turned his gaze towards the kitchen then. "It's good to see he has something for himself. Someone that can make him smile."

"He's a lot more likeable when he smiles," Bombur admitted. "A heck of a lot less scary, too. Less like he's going to eat you."

"Bombur!" Bofur admonished with a sputtered laugh while Bifur roared with laughter. 

"What?" Bombur demanded, snatching the pipe back from Bifur before it spilled. "It's true! You know he's a noble and honourable dwarf, but then he's glaring at you and it's all you can do not to wet yourself when the instinctual reaction to run from the predator kicks in. I can't help it," he yelped when Bofur's roars matched Bifur's in volume, both half rolling from their chairs. "He's scary!"

"C'mon," Bofur giggled, tugging Bombur to stand with him. "If we've all but adopted that crazy lot, we may as well go and check on 'em all. I do like an interesting mess. We'll never find one better."

***

There were many that blamed elves for the inherent madness of the heirs of Durin. Jealous elves that envied the vast wealth of the Longbeards, Dwarves would mutter darkly throughout the ages. And while Elves did have a hand in the making of such madness, it was not their doing that caused it. In reality, the madness sprung when Durin III stretched forth his hand to take up the first of the seven rings offered to the Dwarves by the disguised Sauron. The legend told that Celibrimbor had presented the rings personally to drive the race of Dwarves mad. This -Ori had lectured Dori extensively once after hearing the rumours on the way home one day- was not the case, as there was nothing in the research he had done to suggest the elves had crafted them for the purpose of gifting them to the Dwarves at all. They were intended to enslave _Elves_ , not Dwarves, and the fact that the Dwarven Kings had not all turned to Wraiths like the Kings of Men only spoke of Dwarven resilience, Ori had heatedly argued, waving his lunch around in the air as he animatedly made his point. The rings given to Men were no different to those of the Dwarves, and besides making them excessively greedy and possessive of their gold, the Dwarves were almost completely unaffected. 

Dori never made the mistake of bringing _that_ issue up in their home again. His little brother was such a sweet little thing, but get him riled up over historical accuracy, and look out. Oh, how they grow.

Suffice to say, Dori had always been somewhat relieved that the last of the Rings had been lost with King Thráin, Mahal protect his soul. While many saw the Rings as symbols of the right to rule, Dori had always wondered why they had used Elvish craft as such a sign. Dwarrows did not need such things to know what was plain as day, surely? Another symptom of the corruption brought by the Dark One, he had always though. Not that he would say such a thing aloud. After all, should his King need a ring, then Dori would see that ring found and returned to said King, if that was what he so desired.

Dori didn't have to like it. But he would do it. He was loyal.

The Durin line had always been good to his. Technically, he would think proudly to himself, he and his kin _were_ Durins, after all. King Glóin of the Grey Mountains had been, let's say, somewhat free with his affections after his wife passed just a few years after the birth of his only son, Óin. He reportedly spent the next 140 years moving from partner to partner, before dying in his bed next to a nubile young lass of the race of Men at the age of 249, causing quite the scandal. 

What was less commonly known, was his affair with a young daughter of a Stone Master, of whom he was apparently very fond. When she bore him a son quite unexpectedly, he refused to marry her, though Dori's mother had told him that the King always supported his unofficial family financially and socially, and made time for his second son, even if he were never acknowledged. And King Óin, or any of the Kings that followed had never treated their line as anything other than unnamed kin- warmly but privately. All the way down the line to his mother, and to Dori and his younger brothers.

While Dori had never been _ashamed_ of his heritage, had even been chuffed by such a prestigious background, actually hearing Thorin claim them to his husband ( _husband!_ ) so casually as kin, and in front of fellow dwarves, well. Dori didn't think it was possible to hold any more warmth for the one he would name as his King, no matter what said King was to do from that moment forward.

He was the slightest bit worried, when Thorin had told them of his gold sickness, but more worried _for_ Thorin than anything. Thorin had always made time to meet with Dori, taken time to sit with him every so often to enquire after the family and such. He was not so foolish that he did not see the connection when he had mentioned Ori's dedication to Scribery, and the apprenticeship offered not long after. Nor the fact that the watch was far more lenient with Nori than they had a right to be. It was the little things that could mean a whole lot. While Dori still held a lot of awe for the stoic Dwarf, he'd also felt a little possessive of him, much the same way he was with Nori and Ori. And even though it was wildly inappropriate, he had still felt the urge, upon witnessing the Prince's broken confession, to make him a cup of tea, wrap him in a warm blanket, and bellow at anyone who might have had a hand in making Thorin that upset. 

For now though, all he could really do was fuss over his actual brothers. He was aware that this drove the two of them absolutely insane, but he couldn't help himself when he was this worked up with worry. He did not regret following Thorin on this quest, Mahal no. Thorin himself had asked, since his family were so were well taught in all aspects of the Stone Mason secrets, taught by their mother, a fine master of her craft. There was unfortunately, little call for their specific line of expertise in the dilapidated Halls of Ered Luin, but their skills could be invaluable in deciphering paths into, and through, Erebor, and of course, Ori was additionally hired to record the journey, a fact that had made Dori and even cynically-minded Nori puff with pride. Ori's achievements were one of the very few things that could make Nori happy.

Now, Nori was brooding in the corner of the room with Ori curled at his feet, keeping a sharp eye on the Durin cousins in the hall. They had seen Thorin leave, and the silence it had left through the house after, and Dori had seen the silently sad little Hobbit watch from the kitchen door as Thorin left. He hadn't made to follow, and Dori wasn't sure what to make of that. 

He watched himself as the Durin cousins left a few moments later after Thorin, and sighed loudly. 

"What?" Nori asked tetchily.

"Hmm?" he enquired absently, worried gaze going back to the kitchen door.

"You keep sighing. Worse than you normally do. You're gonna sigh out a lung at this rate," Nori grumbled at him. Ori nodded in agreement when Dori raised an eyebrow at them, and he couldn't help another pained sigh escaping before he could catch himself.

"I was just thinking," he started.

"We could see that," Nori interjected snidely. "We could almost see the cogs straining to turn."

"Shut it," Dori growled, while Ori slapped Nori's knee in admonishment. "Never mind," he sighed again, turning back to gaze at the kitchen door, just in time to watch the Miner and his family make their way out the front door, frowning with another heavy sigh.

"Why _are_ you sighing, Dori," Ori asked, once again playing the diplomat in their dysfunctional little family. Dori didn't know whether Ori actually wanted to know, or if he was simply asking for the sake of Nori. Nori, the little contradiction. He couldn't stand not knowing things, especially anything Dori may be keeping from him, but couldn't ever keep his mouth from running off when around his older brother. Meaning, he rarely left a conversation satisfied.

Dori would be worrying over that again, if not for the fact that he was a little overburdened with worries right now.

"They've all gone after Thorin," he mused quietly. "I know he is Kin, and I want to follow myself and make sure at least the youngen's are alright. But nobody has gone to the Hobbit."

"So?" Nori shrugged.

"Wouldn't it be terrible," Dori started, voice low. "Wouldn't it be terrible, if Thorin broke free of gold sickness because of his love for that little Hobbit in there, only to lose him through foolishness now? Wouldn't it be terrible if what drove his One away was the memory of such a thing? He's alone in his own home, alone in a home filled with people."

"You can't fix everyone, Dori," Nori whispered fiercely, and there they were, back to that old argument again. 'You can't fix me' inherent in his tone. Mahal, it felt like he was always fighting to gain the smallest of ground with his brother, and damned if he didn't have the fire to fight right now.

"I know," he admitted quietly, seeing Nori visibly start at that response out of the corner of his eye. "But a Dwarf has to have something to believe in. And if I can't believe in true love, what can I believe in? Sometimes, it would be nice to see something good and pure, something that isn't broken and twisted by the cruel realities of this world. Just once, wouldn't it be nice for things to work out?" He turned then, feeling all his long years as he met Nori's gaze. "Wouldn't it?"

Nori didn't answer, and Ori looked close to tears at his feet, so Dori let himself have one last sigh before turning away from the kitchen, leaning against the wall with a clear view of the front door. He was very used to being a dwarf with a plan, but at this moment, he was quite without anything to do but wait and worry. 

"Why is he alone?" Nori asked belligerently from _right beside_ his head, and Dori was well deserved in that small _not_ a shriek. He got a smirk, regardless, and then his most difficult brother for the briefest of moments almost looked shy, before his expression turned blank again. "You all but fall over yourself to call Thorin Oak-up-his-arse kin, why not his sexy little husband he has stashed here? Go be big brother in there so we don't have to endure it." He managed to finish with a smarmy look and an eye roll, recovering some of his wit, but Dori -just for a second- spotted something. A tiny something there in his eyes when he talked about Thorin, something that had long ago become a topic they simply did not discuss, Nori seeming to have a hatred of all things royal. But for a second, just a second there...

"I do like to lay claim to those I care about as Kin," he agreed. "And Thorin has been good to our family. But he _does not_ come before family I actually have. You and Ori are my kin before Thorin. Why do you think I agreed to let my little family be drafted into this insane jaunt?" He stopped, leaning forward to hold Nori's shoulder for a moment. "My brother Nori, one of the most skilled Carver Masons of the age, and his skill lies idle while he pickpockets for a living. My baby brother Ori, an outstanding Scribe, and already facing the prospect of allowing his craft to fall to the wayside for an occupation that may actually earn something. Erebor is the only hope I have for my brothers to receive the recognition they deserve, as great Masters of their time." He let that sink in for a moment, and although Nori's expression didn't seem to change, there was that something there again for a moment, and perhaps, perhaps. 

"For the moment, though, you are somewhat right. Thorin or not, the lad in there has welcomed us freely, fed me and mine up well, and been nothing but kind, no matter the circumstances. There are far worse that we could claim as kin, ay?"

With that he darted in to knock foreheads with his stubborn brother before he could duck away, clapped his hands together decisively, straightened his tunic, and made for the kitchen. 

At the door he paused. The Hobbit looked almost impossibly young, standing still and staring at nothing, expression lost. At the same time, though, he almost seemed infinitely older, something in his eyes, but the look vanished away as Dori shifted slightly and Mister Baggins snapped his gaze up to the dwarf. The Hobbit smiled warmly and resumed his slicing of cold meats.

"Master Dori," he welcomed. "Is there something I can get you? A fresh cup of tea perhaps?"

"That is very generous of you," Dori answered, moving further into the kitchen and making himself comfortable on a stool. "No thankyou, to the tea, perhaps later, if the offer is still going." He smiled when Mister Baggins gave him another warm smile and an "Of course." Briefly, Dori considered his options, before deciding that perhaps straight forward would be best.

"I actually came in to make sure that you were alright," he started. "I don't know what occurred with Thorin after you parted company with the rest of us, and I don't want to know," he hastily assured him. "I would not dare to pry. And although I have barely a blood connection to Thorin and am most likely a far cry from those he would surely choose should you require it, I still count him as kin, and thereby you, as his husband, so if you need someone to talk to, I..." he hesitated, a little worried, as the Prince's husband had halted his carving to stare a little open-mouthed at him. "Well," he soldiered on. "I am at your service, should there be anything you need," he managed to finish.

"Mister Dori..." Mister Baggins sighed, placing the knife down, silent for a moment. "First, I think you should know, Thorin values family very much. If he has claimed you as kin, you are kin. Simple as that. Second. That is so very kind of you, Master Dori, very kind indeed. I am honoured that you would offer such a thing. Thankyou, Master Dori."

"It is my pleasure, Mister Baggins," Dori reassured.

"Bilbo," the Hobbit insisted. "Please call me Bilbo."

"Then you must call me Dori," he smiled. 

"Dori," Bilbo agreed, taking up his knife again and slowly working his way through the meat, each slice made deft and well handled. They sat silently for a long moment before Bilbo spoke.

"I will admit," he began slowly, "there was a time, where I believed Thorin lost to me. We had been... separated. And the thought occurred to me, that if he were dead, even if we had wed, had vowed ourselves to one another? Well." He glanced up through his lashes at Dori for a second, before settling back on his carving. "Your Mahal promised the welcome of his Halls to his Dwarrows. Not to Men, not Elves, and not Hobbits. Although I refused to give up hope, there was a time that I would wonder, whether I would see Thorin again." He fell silent again, moving sideways to uncover dozens of golden brown rolls, which he started to split and stuff with the carved meat, adding a spoon full of one of the condiments in bowls around him.

"And there was a time," Bilbo suddenly continued, "very recently, where I hit the darkest of thoughts. I lost faith. Something happened, I had some new information, and I thought that there was no room to believe. That I would never, ever see Thorin ever again. That he was completely lost to me. You cannot imagine the despair..." he trailed off, still as a statue for a moment. A long moment, time seeming to freeze on the moment for so long, and Dori, for that long second, never felt so lost. But then Bilbo shook himself and smiled.

"I had to hope, though. I had to believe the Valah would be merciful. And I was rewarded. My Thorin came back to me." He carefully wiped his hands on a dishcloth and leant forward, clasping Dori's hands between his own. 

"Thorin is a son of Durin- quick to temper, long to brood, but so very, very worth the effort. Don't worry yourself, Dori. Thorin just needs to blow of some steam. I haven't given up on him yet."

Dori was silent a moment, before he cocked his head. 

"You knew my worry?" he asked. Bilbo shrugged.

"You care for him, it's only natural you would care that I have the power to break his heart." He grinned at Dori then. "I'm sort of surprised that Master Dwalin hasn't been in here threatening me with violent death if I hurt Thorin. He's a big one, isn't he?"

"He is," Nori drawled with a waggle of an eyebrow from the doorway, and Bilbo flashed him a bright grin, while Ori giggled into his mittens. 

"Come to fetch him, have you?"

"We have," Ori managed. 

"The old fusspot there, he wanted to check on his more royal of kin. And, well," Nori smirked and winked at Bilbo, "there's a dozen dwarrows wandering around out there, and above ground, you never know what kind of disaster that could lead to. I can't miss that kind of mess." 

Bilbo laughed and flapped his dishcloth at them.

"Go on then, go track down my errant husband and the rest of the marauding horde that invaded my home with you. Let them know that supper shall be ready soon."

The three brothers stopped dead.

"Another meal?" Dori asked in disbelief.

Bilbo only laughed in response, herding them out the door, and the three turned in the direction of the tell-tale noise of dwarrows gathered in a pack.

"You realise that house has a very strange echo to it?" Nori asked Dori, once they were out of earshot of the lovely green door.

"Eh?" Dori side-eyed Nori in confusion.

"And Hobbits are known to have absolutely exceptional hearing," Ori added helpfully. Dori stared at them both.

"He heard our conversation?" he asked slowly.

"Most probably. Interesting creature, that one."

"I like him," Ori stated firmly. "He seems absolutely perfect for Mister Thorin."

"Quite right," Dori beamed at Ori as they crossed into a field, following the noise to a rather large tree in the middle.  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: LONG ARSE AUTHOR NOTE AHOY!!
> 
> Firstly, obviously I am playing fast and loose with both book and movie canon here. I have stuck to book canon for the most part, expect for Azog. Instead of Dáin striking him down at the gates of Azanulbizar, Thorin faced off against him as in the movie, and the bugger got away with only the loss of an arm, as in the movie. Because I cannot _not_ have the beautiful Carrock scene from the movie, after Bilbo saves Thorin's life. I squeed. So hard. And I know that technically, Thorin is the oldest of the company in the books, and probably the only one that even remembers Erebor and Thrór's rule- Balin being the only one even born at the time and only a wee seven year old when Smaug came- but I adore the idea of the cousins Fundin and Gróin being all banded together from the beginning to watch over and serve little Prince Thorin. And the movie characters are sooo much more vibrant than the book characters, it is too easy to go with the Peter Jackson interpretation of the lot of them. 
> 
> Also, in regards to Balin's suposition that Thorin suddenly decided to retake Erebor to prove that he could be a great King for his people and not fall to Gold Sickness _as he has before_ \- is obviously not entirely accurate. But I have always head-canoned that Thorin went to Erebor not just to save his people, but because of the teeny tiny burried fear that if he was king of Erebor, that he might turn out like his Grandfather. And he did. Poor Thorin. So Balin is sorta right but not really because events are all out of order. See?
> 
> The brothers Fundin and Gróin are first cousins, and the great-grandsons of Borin, younger brother of King Dáin I, father of Thrór. Óin is being snotty because he's a descendant of a younger sibling in the Durin line. Though interestingly, Glóin is named for King Glóin, son of Thorin I, and father of King Óin, who was father to Náin, Thrór's grandpa. For some reason, a lot of family trees leave King Glóin out of the line, presumably because he never ruled in Erebor? But neither did Óin, so I don't know. Thorin I was King of Erebor, but took his people to reunite with the remaining kin in the Grey Mountains (Erebor being just a baby mountain then, only establised a few years before by his daddy- Thráin I), and then his great grandson Náin, led them back there after they lost _that_ home to cold drakes. So Durin's folk have a habit of losing their mountains to dark creatures. Poor buggers.
> 
> Anyone growing confused over the Durin family tree should go here: http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/House_of_Durin as they have an excellent visual family tree. Which also leaves out Glóin.
> 
> The LOTR movies sort of fudge a bit on the details of the Rings of Power. In _book_ canon, Sauron using a disguise, convinced the Elven Craftmasters of Eregion, under Celibrimbor, to make a group of rings, sixteen of which he managed to place under his own influence, in an effort to bring Elves under his control. Celibrimbor made three rings in secret, just as Sauron made another in secret to control what he thought was only sixteen. When he put on his One Ring to Rule Them All though, the elves felt his influence and took theirs _off_. Sauron, furious that his plan had failed, demanded the rings back from the elves, and managed to get back the sixteen that he had influenced. Obviously, they kept the awesome three that can't be controlled by the One, cementing Elrond and Galadriel as kickass for all time. Anyway, Sauron decided to distribute the sixteen amongst mortals. There was no inherent difference, really, between all the rings, he simply handed over one of each to the seven Kings of the Dwarven empires (in the unfortunate disguise of Annatar the Elvishy dude- a cause for discontent between Dwarves and Elves there after) and then nine to the Men, because he believed them the most easily conrolled. And he was right. Sauron never came to have sway over the Dwarves, and the Dwarf kings were mostly unaffected. Except for that nasty greed issue. Whereas the Men all turned into freaky Wraith thingies. Bad Juju.
> 
> Finally, the reason that I am referring to Thorin as Prince, is because I belive that canonically, Thorin never claimed the title of King (someone do correct me if I am wrong). Technically, until Gandalf hands over the key and map, Thráin is only _missing_ , not officially dead. Thorin operates under the assumption that he is Prince Regent, acting monarch in the absence of his father. And then the quest happens, and he is maybe King for all of a few days after Smaug is killed. Maybe. He's never crowned, and only really acknowledged as King after he is already dead, and given a King's burial. SAD, man, and we have that to look forward to in the last movie.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Er, good morning, lovelies. Here, I finally deliver the most frustrating chapter in the history of fic. For me. It has taken three months of grinding my teeth while typing and many avoidance tactics to write it. Eek! My apologies, dear ones. I think I am past the point of block. In other news, I am working on a second story as well, that may appear here soon. Perhaps. 
> 
> Anyway, we did the dwarves last chapter, this is kind of at the same time as what is happening in chapter seven. Let me know if anyone is confused.
> 
> Ma shândi is taken from the Khuzdul phrase book and means 'I don't understand'. Amradul Mabar is my own hideous mish mash of Khuzdul, Amradul meaning death-like, and Mabar meaning bed. Death-bed, but not in the sense that we would use it. A headcanon! moment: Dwarves do not bury their dead, or burn them. Both are impractical inside a mountain. The important, like Kings, are entombed and left to 'sleep', being that they are (at least, amongst the Longbeards) sons of Durin, and Durin slept amongst the rocks, but for the rest, they are returned to the stone in the easiest way, by lowering their dead into pools of magma deep beneath their mountains. They obviously, then, don't need coffins, do they? So, they forge a 'Amradul Mabar', a death bed, sort of an open pole-carried litter to carry their dead to the pools. The last bed they lay in.
> 
> Just go with it *grins*.

Thorin cursed as his hands shook, rifling through his pack. Bilbo had left after their long, long talk of the last - _Mahal_ \- seventy nine years. He'd left Thorin to head to the kitchen, both of them needing a moment after discussing how to proceed from the mess they found themselves in. He was supposed to be preparing to pull his cousins aside and start to talk them round to a different route to the Lonely Mountain, albeit a longer one. Not that they would take much convincing, really, after all Balin had been trying to persuade him to take an easier, safer path for months. The first time around, though, he'd burned with the urge to just _get there_ , so he hadn't been interested, too focused on the destination to care over much for the journey. Now though, he dug through the plethora of maps that he had brought with him, three times as many as he'd had when he had done this quest the first time. 

The maps slipped from his grip and he cursed again, half tearing the things as he swiped them off the floor. How was he supposed to think of Erebor, after all that he now knew?

That damn ring. Bilbo's funny little magic ring. He had found out about it when locked within Thranduil's fortress. Bilbo had made his way to the cell they had locked him in, and Thorin had been near frantic with worry that his little One would be found, and the fate that would await his love if he was discovered. That was when Bilbo had shown him the ring.

It had seemed such a simple little thing. Anyone, Man, Dwarf or Elf would have without hesitation labelled it as ‘innocuous’ and passed on to something more interesting.. It simply turned the wearer invisible. Thorin had thought it such a gift. It was a harmless trinket – good for party tricks and little more; but a blessing for his One. A miracle that had kept his dearest little Hobbit alive and safe. He had all but demanded that Bilbo use it, keep it on him and wear it as much as possible.

Thorin's gut rolled. 

The whole time, it had been the most evil object to ever infect the land. And it had been on his husband's hand so many times at Thorin's urging.

He dropped the maps again, balling his fists and punching the closest wall, trying to breathe and not give into the urge to bellow and rage in despair. Unfortunately, he was fast losing that battle, and he blindly headed for the door, down the hall and out the front door, passing Gandalf with a "Not now!" when it seemed the wizard might stop him. Out into the cool night air, and his temper was not cooling at all. Down the hill, and the next, the faster he strode, the angrier he felt, and he took off across a field to the giant tree in the middle of the grassy stretch, fists immediately thumping against the bark in rhythmic thumps. He couldn't get it out of his head, his little husband's face as he had explained, a recounting turning into a rushed confession of madness and despair, such guilt and sorrow and confusion, and he hadn't been there for any of it, Bilbo had gone through it all alone, without him. 

He'd done that. Thorin had been the one to yank him into all this mess to begin with. If it hadn't been for him and his bloody pride, Bilbo would have never have left his home, never have been towed across the land, almost killed so many times, would not have been deep in caves that even Goblins feared to tread and would never have been exposed to that thing. Never have been urged to use it by Thorin, never have carted it around as a bloody memento of their time together, never have been driven mad and miserable by the damned thing in his older years.

Never have been driven to go and find the damned thing again this time.

 _Three months_! Bilbo had come back _three months_ before the quest, not three weeks. Why? What could have done this to them? How was any of this possible? Not that Thorin was ungrateful for the chance to right his wrongs, but the circumstances were somewhat... trying. He'd hoped, oh he had hoped, that he and Bilbo had not been separated for too long. But Bilbo had not just lived a whole seventy-nine (approximately) years past his death -and that there still made him woozy- but he had 'come back' a total of ninety-one days before this one, where Thorin had only had twenty-one. What was the sense in that? Why would that happen?

Oh, and what his husband had done in the time he had been given! Going off on his own in a re-creation of the route they had taken the first time. Heading straight for the troll camp, for a start, and sneaking into their circle to plant some rather nasty herbs in the pot. The memory of Bilbo's embarrassed explanation almost cut through his brood enough to make him smile. "All I did was help them fall asleep after a nice dinner. It's not my fault that they failed to wake before the sun rose!" All to get Sting and Orcrist from that bloody cave. 

And then, oh then, his silly, ridiculously fragile Hobbit had set off into the Misty Mountains, carving warning runes all over the damn place in Khuzdul, warnings to take the lower paths, warnings of the Stone Giants and of Goblin traps in the caves, all sorts "Just in case you didn't want to take any of my advice", risking himself by running all over those mountains by himself, just to keep Thorin and his Company safe the second time.

Worst of all, he had made himself venture into the worst of the caves below to steal a ring from a warped being that _ate people_. This time, though, the thing Bilbo had called Gollum would not know the name of the one who took his treasure. The being had not even seen him this time, Bilbo told him, and was probably doomed to spend its days wandering the caves looking for its precious. His tender-hearted husband had not been able to bring himself to kill the horrible little creature, even after all it had done before, but this time, it would not be able to pass his name along to the Nazgûl if they came looking.

The Nazgûl, for stone's sake. They had hunted his One. His little Hobbit. They had sought his tiny Bilbo for the Dark One.

He punched the tree harder. He hadn't managed to break through his thick Dwarven skin yet, but he was giving it a damn good go. Bilbo would be furious, wanting to know why he would seek absolution for himself for something he was not present for, and really, he could barely explain why to himself. Right now though, all he could feel was the weight of failure. 

"Uncle? Do you have to do that here? I think you're making Fíli tree-sick."

Thorin paused in his punching to look up. Despite the thick foliage, it was easy for him to see his boys a third of the way up the tree, Kíli braced against the trunk, wrapped around his brother, straddling a thick branch. Fíli wasn't looking at him, and Kíli's smart-arse grin was missing the signature cheekiness, stretched and worried. 

There were many things that Thorin had come to regret over the years, whole bucket loads more since he was sent back in time. One thing that he had lamented long before this, before the quest became a reality, was how lacking he had been as a father figure to his nephews.

He had always tried his best to be there for them; he had been the one to take them through the teachings of the forge, trained them to be the fine warriors they were, and coaxed them through the art of statecraft, preparing them for the days when they would lead their people. He had been their King and Liege, their role model and idol, and their uncle at times almost an aside to that. He had fed them, clothed them, kept them in line and tanned their hides when they had done something life-threateningly stupid, had them by his side and kept them safe when their mother could not be there. The, well, the emotional side of raising them, he had left to his sister, though. If the boys looked to be down or morose, he would snap them out of it with the admonishment that princes do not mope, and then quietly set their mother on them. As much as he would have liked to have been the one to dry their tears and sooth their fears, the weight of an entire kingdom of people had always held precedent, no matter how he wished otherwise. And always the little voice in the back of his head that reminded him that he _wasn't_ their father, was he? - their father had died saving his life in a pointless skirmish, and nothing he did would ever change that.

(There had been a time, long ago, when he had been the Uncle whose lap they would climb into, the Uncle who would sing them to sleep. Somehow over the years, that Uncle had become cold and distant. The regrets just kept piling up.)

Right now, though, their mother was not here. Thorin was. And as much as his gut was still sour with bitter roiling grief, his boys absolutely should not be sporting such expressions, not when he could maybe bring back the smiles. Second chances. They had to be seized.

Sighing, he grabbed a low hanging limb and started the climb, swearing when he was immediately snagged by what felt like a hundred different twigs. Fíli's face snapped from his intent study of the horizon, startled by his uncle’s muttered curses as he struggled to a branch next to the younger dwarrows. The wide-eyed shocked look was becoming common around him lately. Thorin had to wonder exactly how different he appeared to all the people he knew these days. 

"Right" Thorin huffed when he managed to wedge himself onto a branch facing them, his knees uncomfortably pressed against Kíli's leg. "What's got you two hiding up here instead of polishing off a pile of sweeties where I left you?"

Kíli looked to Fíli, but his brother was back to staring at the horizon, so he shrugged and tightened his grip around Fíli's middle and avoided Thorin's gaze. Thorin scrubbed a hand across his face, swivelling to stare out in the same direction as Fíli, his expression perfectly matching his nephew's brooding. A thought occurred to him all of a sudden and he huffed a quick laugh.

"Do you remember that weasely little twat diplomat that was sent all the way from the Stiffbeards some years back?" The boys, both startled by the laugh and sudden change of topic both straightened slightly, listening, even if Fíli was studiously still not looking at him.

"I always believed that he had been sent as part of the envoy on the long trip so his own people could get rid of him for a while. Officious stuck-up prick. I wanted to gut him for how he treated the two of you. Looking down his nose at my oldest heir and telling me to set you aside since the younger was obviously more a Durin then a product of your low-born father." Fíli's eyes came off the horizon to widen in shock, and Kíli quivered in that way he did when he had been forced to sit still for too long. 

"Kíli may look like me, and your mother, but he is your father through and through. It's like Flai's still around, driving me crazy with his ridiculous pranks and bloody awful jokes. He couldn't sit still for more than a minute either. Oh, how I hated that boy when I first met him. He had the nerve to start courting your mother without asking permission from me or your Grandfather, and your mother was barely fifty!" He shifted to get more comfortable a moment, slinging a leg up to rest his foot on the branch, sighing as he realised he was getting old. His knee should not creak in such a way.

"Made that boy suffer, though, he courted for close to twenty years before I let them wed," he chuckled. "Fíli though, you may have your father's colouring, but damn if you aren't a Durin through and through. That means you have all the bad qualities of us Durin's as well. We're stubborn and moody and entirely too pessimistic. We've also got whole buckets full of pride to spare, so we aren't going to ask for help or admit that something bothers us. Makes dealing with us Durin's a complete pain, Bilbo would tell you. You might want to see him some time, Kíli, to swap advice in dealing with the irritation that is a Durin as a bonded," he chuckled again. 

"What is almost impossible for us typical Durin's to realise at times, though, is that brooding doesn't make anything better. It doesn't fix things, and it certainly doesn't stop us from being just like what we don't _want_ to be." 

He chucked Fíli under the chin, bringing his boy's gaze up to meet his own. 

"I don't blame you for not wanting to turn out like me. I never wanted to be my Grandfather, yet..." he held his arms out to the side for a moment in a depreciating survey of himself.

"That isn't it!" Fíli burst out, and for a moment it was painfully obvious how young the boy really was. "I would be honoured to be like you. You're one if the greatest dwarves ever!" Kíli added his agreement with an exuberant "yes!" and a fist pumped into the air. Thorin raised one sceptical brow.

"Then...?" he asked.

Fíli's gaze darted about for a moment, arms clutched at Kíli's around him. 

"I don't want to kill Kíli!"

"You _what?_ " Dwalin's voice boomed from beneath them. Looking down, Thorin was surprised to see all four of his cousins standing at the base looking up. Though he really shouldn't be. They never would let him mope for long. 

"Why...?" Dwalin trailed off before a mutinous look passed his face and he grabbed a hold of the lowest branch, beginning to haul himself up, but paused and jumped back down, grabbing his brother by the scruff. "Up you go," he boomed, hoisting Balin up, before scrambling up after. Óin was already pushing Glóin's hands away and pulling himself up, muttering something about age and dignity, while Glóin started his own ascent, cursing loudly at every twig that poked into him. Before long Thorin and the lads were surrounded by their kin, perched up in the gently swaying branches. 

"Now," Balin, ever the voice of reason asked gently, "why on all Middle-Earth would you need to kill Kíli?" 

"You are an _idiot_ ," Kíli very solemnly declared. Fíli aimed a glare over his shoulder and crossed his arms above where Kíli still gripped, staring out at the horizon again. "No, you really are," Kíli continued, "you're a complete and utter _idiot_. Far more idiot than I have ever managed to be, and you know that is saying a lot."

"I'm lost," Glóin said, staring back and forth between the brothers and Thorin.

"Fíli's an idiot," Kíli stated seriously, shaking his bonded affectionately, while Fíli flushed hotly and smacked at the arms around him in irritation. "No, really, you are."

Dwalin exchanged looks with Glóin, and they both shook their heads, turning back to the boys.

"Still lost."

Fíli looked torn, face twisted as if deciding what to say, and Kíli squeezed him.

"Oh, I am going to enjoy this. Go on, tell them why you are _so much more_ idiot than me today."

Fíli growled and blushed, hunching in on himself, which just seemed to make Kíli grin, bright and sudden, like the sun coming from behind a cloud.

"Uncle is right. You're _just_ like him. A complete and utter dunderhead."

Thorin glowered at his youngest lad for a moment, but something about that had made Fíli... shrink. Frightened and small, like Kíli had just forged the last link in his amradul mabar. Kíli's smile faded again.

"Fí..."

Fíli's answering "Kíli" was whispered and more than a little broken, and that was all it took to make Kíli absolutely furious, apparently. 

"No seriously, this is stupid. I love you, but you are being completely ridiculous on a level I didn't know you were capable of. You have been my entire world for _literally_ my entire life, and still I find myself _astonished_ at your utter lack of sense right now."

Thorin's eyebrows could not possibly get any higher. By the look of his cousins and their wide eyed incredulous blinks, they were just as shocked as he was.

"Ma shândi."

"Yeah, I don't get it either," Bombur said below them to Bifur, and Thorin and the rest of the dwarves in the tree looked down.

The groups below and above staring silently at each other. A cricket nearby started to chirrup loudly. 

Bombur huffed, looking away from the sight of seven dwarves in a tree to frown at his brother.

"You and your interesting messes. Nobody said anything about _climbing_."

"Oh, get your arse up the tree," Bofur laughed impatiently and scrambled up after Bifur, who had already scaled up to sit above Thorin, poking him in the shoulder and muttering unflattering things about climbing trees being further proof on top of his pretty face that his mother must have dallied with an elf. He only chuckled when Thorin attempted to dislodge him and throw him to the ground. Attempted and failed.

Stupid Broadbeam.

Not. Pretty.

"Now," Bofur asked, genuinely confused and slightly incredulous, "did I just hear _Kíli_ , our young Kíli, admonish his elder and bonded for an act of stupidity?"

"Why does the way you say that imply that it should be the other way around?" Kíli asked, frowning and riled. Thorin's mental jaw was starting to lift off the metaphorical floor and let his brain restart. There was a reason that the others were staring that way. Kíli _never_ told his brother off. Ever.

At least, nobody had ever seen it before.

"Oh, not that it should be the other way around, as such, more like, slightly ironic?" Balin interjected calmly.

"Yeah, that," Bofur nodded.

"I don't like what you're trying to say," Kíli sulked. Thorin felt himself relax. If Kíli had it in him to pout like that, then the situation couldn't be too dire.

"Just that, lad, if one is known for their terrible lack of sense when it comes to thinking one's actions through fully, then, well, how do I put this lightly? You aren't one to be pointing fingers, if you know what I'm saying."

"What Óin means is, your brain normally generates less heat than two bits of marble rubbing together. There ain't no right for you to be throwing the word 'dunderhead' around, not even at your only marginally less stupid brother," Dwalin grinned. "It's like coal calling the basalt black."

Kíli drew himself up as best he could, tucked between Fíli and the tree with his arms stuck around his bonded, and put on his haughtiest of Durin stares, the one he normally only used when the Stiffbeards or the Stonefoots had sent stuck-up ambassadorial parties, and stared down his nose at Dwalin.

"You, cousin, have very little room to talk."

Dwalin just squinted at Kíli, before looking back and forth between him and Thorin. 

"Mahal's hairy stones, I'm having flashbacks. It's like seeing snooty baby Thorin all over again. Pretty face and all."

"I'm. Not. Pretty." Thorin gritted out. The force of the roar of laughter from Bifur almost did send him barrelling out of the tree this time, catching himself last minute and shaking off Thorin's grip- where he may or may not have been 'assisting' Bifur with his descent.

"Oh, I reckon there's a little Hobbit up yonder hill that may disagree with you there, Thorin," Bofur said cheerily, swinging his legs back and forth on his perch.

" _My Mother_ , Thorin emphasised, throwing a stray twig at Bifur, "was the finest of Dwarrowdams, and most certainly would _not_ have ever dallied with any Elf. She would have _cut_ you before you even knew she had a blade for even implying so. I am not _pretty_ , my nephews are pretty."

" _Hey!_ "

"And I still don't know why my eldest lad thinks he has to kill his brother."

"I don't," Fíli whined suddenly, "I _don't_ want to kill Kíli!"

" _Excuse me_?" echoed out ferociously over the field and the ten dwarrows in the tree looked down. Dori's murderous visage, Nori's incredulous climbing eyebrow braids and Ori's open mouth were the sight that greeted them. The two parties stared at each other.

"Oh, for-" Dori muttered as his younger brothers exchanged mischief filled glances and started scrambling up to take up perches, Dwalin squawking in a most undignified way when Nori ended up mostly in his lap. Dori himself heaved himself up the branches in a few seemingly effortless bounds. 

" _What_ is going on?" he demanded.

"Fí's being ridiculous," Kíli answered immediately, shaking his brother who had by this stage buried his face in his hands. "Like, really, really stupid. In a way that only really talentedly stupid people can be."

"So, you're speaking from experience here?" Nori asked.

"Why is everyone picking on me?" Kíli demanded. "Fíli's the one being a complete moron." 

Thorin sighed.

"And why is that? _No_ ," he insisted when Kíli looked about to make another smart-arsed comment. "I want answers, and I want them now, boys."

Kíli hesitated as he turned a face full of sudden trepidation at his brother, and back to Thorin, but the deepening ire on his Uncle's face had him straightening and hurriedly explaining.

"Aunty Bilbo said that Dragon Gold is cursed."

"And?"

"And then you said that us Durin's were especially susceptible, and that you had been Gold Mad."

" _And?_ "

"And... then you said that while you were Gold Mad you tried to kill your One."

Thorin wondered if he looked as dumbfounded as the rest of the Company did. He certainly _felt_ significantly dumbfounded. Because, well.

"You took these bits of information and came up with..."

"I'm going to go Gold Mad and kill Kíli!" Fíli burst out plaintively all of a sudden, burying his head into his arms.

The Company sat stunned and silent and staring. 

'That isn't exactly how Gold Madness works, young Fíli," Gandalf interjected calmly.

As one, the Dwarrows looked up at Gandalf perched on a branch a little ways above them, peacefully smoking his pipe as if he had been there the entire time.

There was some part of Thorin that wasn’t too certain that Gandalf hadn’t been there from the beginning. This going-back-in time lark was enough to give any dwarf a full-blown migraine if he tried too hard to understand it. But if nothing else Thorin had begun to realise that Gandalf had a deeper understanding of such lore than he let on. 

"How did...?" Thorin spluttered incredulously, shaking his head when Gandalf gave him a _look_. With _eyebrows_. "Never mind, I don't want to know."

Thorin wriggled forward, cursing a little at unexpected bark in unexpected places, managing to twist enough to haul the boys in a bit, his nephews now somewhat leaning into him and half in his lap, yet all of them still precariously perched on their respective branches.

"Look at me, my son," he said gently, and Fíli raised his head almost unwillingly, yet unable to _not_ look when Thorin was calling him such.

"Why would you think such a thing?" he asked, carefully brushing stray locks of Fíli's face. "Tell me," he urged, when his golden sister-son only frowned.

Fíli turned a frown over his shoulder at Kíli, but his gaze landed on Thorin, and he couldn't seem to help himself.

"You, you're one of the greatest Dwarves of our Age, and you couldn't resist it. What hope do I have of escaping that fate, if you of all people could not?"

Thorin could only sit, stunned, staring at Fíli in astonishment with the others for a moment, before his brain finally caught up.

"So _much_ hope. You are far better dwarf than I, Fíli. Far better. And at the same time, far less of a dwarf in ways. Peace," he grinned, when Kíli's most ferocious glare turned his way. "What I mean is that Fíli and you have both grown up far differently than I. You were born in the lean times, and the only way of wealth-building you have been taught is the kind that fills bellies and saves lives. It will be far more difficult for such sickness to take you because of that, and with your One by your side, above all else, you have _hope_."

"Your Uncle's right, lads," Óin interjected, when it seemed they may argue. "The youngest of the Blue Mountains are different stock than the rest of us. You grew up being told of the heroic deeds of those around you, and all those deeds have been related to food and medicine and increasing structural integrity of our caves. You've had those things drilled in as important your whole lives. It makes for a different standard in riches."

"But.." Fíli started weakly, but Thorin shook his head and leaned forward, grabbing his hand.

"Tell me the first time you knew Kíli was yours."

"What-"

"Just tell me," Thorin smiled. He watched as Fíli sub-consciously leaned back into Kíli a little more, shoulders relaxing as he thought.

"Mam was a-bed," Fíli started hesitantly, eyes going distant. "With the babe. Adad kept saying I would be a brother soon. I didn't want a sibling though. I couldn’t understand why mam needed another child. Wasn’t I son enough for her?" He grinned wryly. "I was stubbornly determined that I didn’t have room in my heart for any mewling little bratlet that was going to usurp my rightful place in mam’s affection. I may even have told Adad as much – on more than one occasion. I was driving him mad with my whining. So he took me to Amad, I guess he thought she would say something amazing that would shut me up. All she said though, was that I would adore my little brother, and not to worry. I wasn't in the slightest bit convinced. But then..." he trailed off, a smile curling warm and wondering as he remembered. "Then, she put my hand on her belly. And it was... warm. So warm. And the babe turned into my palm. I just knew then, that the little person in there was special. All for me."

The dwarves in the tree were silent for a moment while Kíli buried his head into Fíli's shoulder with a pleased hum.

"And in all the years since, all the times your mother and I have been teaching you the lore, have you ever wondered who that One would be? Have you ever contemplated for a moment it being any other?"

"No," Fíli shook his head hard enough that his moustache braids whipped his cheeks, "never. I always knew, every time you spoke the lore, I knew it was Kíli. I just never knew how to tell you."

"The first time I met Bilbo, my first thought was 'No'. Just 'No'. I was headed somewhere I knew was dangerous, he was set to join us. I was angry at the time, dreading the trip ahead, and fairly certain we were all going to die. I looked him up and down and I insulted him and I turned my back on him." Thorin grinned at the outraged faces turned to him. "I spent the next week or so belittling him and ignoring every guilty twinge at his little down-trodden face. I was angry, I was scared, and I denied him fiercely."

"What changed?" Kíli asked quietly, head tilted in fascination. Thorin laughed ruefully.

"I insulted his cooking," he admitted. Half his Company started sniggering.

"Oh, you didn't," Dori sighed in exasperation.

"I did. I'd all but implied that all he was good for was tending the travel pot, and then I insulted the very tasty stew he had managed to put together with rations and foraged bits. I think it was the last straw. He gave me a dressing-down the likes I had not had since I pushed toddling Frerin in the deep end of the public baths in full view of Amad. My ears rang for hours after."

"He didn't," Ori gasped.

"He did," Thorin chuckled. "After that, if I even looked at him askance, he'd have a glare and a few things to say, let me tell you. My snarky little Hobbit. It was _adorable_ ," he sighed happily.

"After that, well. I still say he kissed me, he still maintains he was pushed. Either way, from then on, he was mine."

Thorin smiled for a moment, eyes distant with memories before he refocused on his nephew.

"Just because I accepted he was mine, didn't mean I made it easy. Bilbo had to fight for every stride in our relationship, and there were times I resisted him with great vehemence. There was little time for much in the way of courtship, and I still believed that I had no grounds to love. I still denied him part of me. I denied myself a lot of what he offered me. And then, then I... lost myself.

"It was _easy_ for such a sickness to take me, because I had accepted his existence as my One, but failed to accept what that meant. How much of myself had to change to honour what he was. I failed, as his beloved. Our marriage was a rushed thing, more apology and a desperate attempt to keep what I had all but thrown away before it was too late. We were separated, then, by circumstance. You have no idea the depth of forgiveness of that little creature up there, that has so _easily_ allowed me back in his home after all I have done. It _humbles_ me, the depth of generosity of his heart.

"I will tell you what I have learned the hard way. Thrór was a good King. He was a good dwarf. He loved his people, his mountain and his family. He believed in prosperity and looked to the future of our people and the Longbeards _prospered_. My grandmother, she could light up a room with her smile. Queen Betru could enter a room and make every Dwarf within fall in love. She was fiery and fierce and sometimes a little silly, and Grandfather loved her without reservation. Her loss... changed him. The hole in his heart her absence made hurt him, and instead of turning to us, his family, to fill that void, he tried to make it hurt less by distancing himself. He went from the Grandfather that laughed and played on the floor by the fire with his family, to a Dwarf of reserved smiles and mountains of work that simply had to be done, no matter the hour. And he changed. He let gold fill that void. He let the Arkenstone and power fill that void. I knew that, I saw it. And still, I refused to see the realities of that, and I made the same mistakes.

"I hardened myself with every loss, because I believed there were too many of our people dependant of me to allow myself any weakness. I spurned love offered to me, thinking it an invitation to weakness, weakness with the inevitable loss. I rejected what was offered freely, even as I gifted my One my tokens, even as I stated his place by my side, still I did not let him have his rightful place in my heart. And fate _punished_ me for that. I have no doubts that my failures at that place, at that time, were punishment for my careless handling of a great gift sent to me. The great tearing sin upon my soul that I would have borne for all eternity had I actually murdered the One gifted to me by our Maker and the fates would have been solely my own making, and I will pay for that every day of Bilbo's life. Because he will never not remember what I have done to him. No matter how much he forgives me, no matter how much blame he tries to take unto himself, no matter what comes for us from now on, there will never be a time when he will not remember the day that I took all the trust he had in me and held him aloft and proclaimed his fate the rocks below. He will never not remember the rage I unleashed upon him, the claims of betrayal and the curses I laid on his very existence. And that is burden I bear, the price that fate has extracted from me."

Kíli had buried his face into his brothers hair, and Fíli, his Fíli let loose a tear, one teardrop to slide down his face into a golden braid.

"Why do you cry, my son? Hmm? I've been given the greatest of gifts. I have a second chance! I can repay every sorrow I heaped upon him with a thousand acts of love. I can spend every day from now on proving everything he is to me. I can work every day to show him that I can be worthy of what he offered me, and offer him back that level of devotion on payment. I have learned the hard way. When you harden your heart, when you keep from filling it with the things that _matter_ , that is when there is room for sickness. I have a second chance and I have great joy in that, because I know what happened before, will never happen again. It will not. Because I have filled my heart with my One, with my sister and my bright wonderful sons," he grinned, shaking them both till Kíli peered at him through blond locks. "I have my kin and my Company, and my people. I have hope, and I have happiness and I have great conviction in a future for all of us. There is no room here, for shinies." The boys both raised a confused brow at that. "That's what Bilbo calls all that glitters and glimmers in torch light. 'Shinies'. He means, things that ultimately, do nothing but sit and be pretty. Hobbits don't have a lot of patience for things that simply sit and look pretty."

Bifur muttered something behind him that basically amounted to 'What is he doing with you then?' and the deep spell of tension seemed to break, all of the assembled dwarves seeming to draw fresh breath and chuckle as Thorin aimed a clumsy elbow back at Bifur. Turning back to his boys, he tugged them in, his two blessed silly boys, resting their foreheads against his own.

"You, Fíli, son of Flai, have a great big giant heart. It's swollen full of your One and your family, your love for your people and life and joy for the coming of every new day. There will be no Sickness in you, Fíli. Your heart is too big and too strong. Foolish boy."

Fíli blinked rapidly for a moment, breath uneven before he sank into his Uncle's hold with a sigh. The rest of the Dwarves around them seemed to relax then, all slouching back and enjoying the fresh air while Thorin had his moment with the boys. Above them, Gandalf hummed in a way that sounded almost approving.

"Are you lot done up there?"

Thirteen dwarrows and a Wizard looked down. Bilbo stood at the base of the tree, hands on hips and bearing a look of put-on impatience. They could all see his eyes soft and happy though, as he stared up at Thorin.

"How long have you been lurking down there?" Thorin chuckled.

"Long enough," Bilbo grinned back. "I would have said something, but, you know. Thirteen Dwarrows and a Wizard up a tree. You would not _believe_ the number of jokes I've managed to come up with starting with that while I waited."

Thirteen Dwarrows stared at a mischievous grinning Hobbit on the ground and then around at themselves and the snickering Wizard above before they en masse made to slither down from their perches. In the case of Óin, what started as a slither ended up in a rather undignified tumble as he caught his foot on Bofur’s shoulder and somersaulted over both Dwalin and Balin on his journey down to the ground. Bilbo collapsed in a fit of sniggers at the sight, and Thorin, once safely on the ground, pointed one finger at him.

"You," he warned, and Bilbo shook his head.

"I just came to tell you that supper was ready. Imagine my surprise at finding you all up the party tree. It needed recording for the history books. 'And Lo, the King Under the Mountain and the Great Advisors of Erebor did make Council in a tree'. It's epic, really."

" _More_ food?" Óin asked incredulously, and Bilbo grinned.

"It's all set out with the remains of tea. After that, feel free to find a bed, though I prefer you make use of the wash facilities first," he told them firmly. 

"Don't you worry yoursen, Mr Queen Consort, we'll not be dirtyin’ up your pretty royal sheets," Bofur said cheerfully with a wink, and Bilbo spluttered at the outrage as the dwarves started trooping back. _Queen Consort_ , honestly. 

"I am nobody’s _Queen_ thankyou very much!" he cried at their retreating backs. "And my sheets can handle anything you throw at them! Oh, why do I bother," he trailed off, turning back to a grinning Thorin.

"Go on then," Thorin smiled, herding his still-hovering nephews towards the allure of a supper table. "I'll be along in a moment. I just have something to discuss with Bilbo."

"Uncle?" Fíli said hesitantly, half turned to head down the hill. "I am proud. To be like you. No matter what you think you have done wrong before, there is nobody I would rather be like."

"Get on with you," Thorin smiled. "Silly boy."

His boys both grinned before bolting down the hill, and Bilbo leant into his side.

"Something to discuss?" Bilbo asked. Thorin knew his grin would be somewhat sinister.

"Yes. Things to discuss."

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Absolute promise, this lot leave the Shire next chapter. And, er, ratings will have to go up for next chapter. Giggity.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, WARNING, we are starting with some Hobbit-on-Dwarf action, so if that isn't you thing, you might want to scroll down a bit. Or reconsider your choice of reading material.
> 
> Now, concerning Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I suggest you go and read this: ( http://lotr.wikia.com/wiki/Lobelia_Sackville-Baggins ) to get an idea of all the bits of her that the movies do not show, since the LOTR movies never get into the whole Scouring of the Shire thing. Also, this: ( http://hugo1900.pagesperso-orange.fr/MAP-OF-MIDDLE-EARTH-VERSION-7.html ) is an excellent map of the places in Middle Earth I am referencing. Seriously, go check that map out, it's brilliant.
> 
> Also, everyone give Beta-Beth girl a warm round of applause, for all the slogging through my Gross Misuse of Apostrophes (I didn't commit too many horribles this time, did I dear? You didn't yell at me. Maybe I have broken your spirit...), it is her hard work that brings you teh chapters. I adore that woman.

*********

Chapter 9:

Previously: 

_"Go on then," Thorin smiled, herding his nephews towards the allure of a supper table. "I'll be along in a moment. I just have something to discuss with Bilbo."_

Now:

"You know," Bilbo panted, "when you said that we had things to 'discuss', I didn't-" He cut himself off with a whine, eyes rolling back for a moment before he gathered his wits again. "-I thought that you actually wanted to talk."

Thorin's reply was a vague grunt, too occupied with thoroughly examining Bilbo's still-rounded, soft Hobbit-belly with his tongue and wicked lips. When he finally lifted his head, it was to heft Bilbo's leg a little higher over his elbow and roll his hips in a slow grind, whining a little himself at the hot clench surrounding his buried length. 

"Sick of talking," he managed, gritting his teeth against the urge to let loose and wildly rut himself to completion. That was becoming something of a lost effort, what with Bilbo's intoxicating little trills of pleasure, his lovely squirms, and the way he yanked desperately on Thorin's hair in the most delicious way with every well aimed thrust. Thorin shuddered and twisted his hips again. He absolutely was not going to last. 

"And what about the others?" Bilbo gasped.

"If you're still thinking about them, I'm obviously not doing a very good job here," Thorin muttered, wrapping a large warm hand around Bilbo's swollen cock, giving him one deliciously firm pull from base to tip, carefully thumbing the slit at the top and delighting in the shocked yelp and full body quiver it earned him. A droplet of sweat slid like a tear across Bilbo's cheek, down past his ear and into the hollow behind it, before dripping onto the bed, and Thorin could not resist dipping his head down to nose at that slick hollow, the smell of heat and sex and sunshine intoxicating, as was the soft satisfied sigh it brought, and the way Bilbo arched his neck into the caress.

"Just," Bilbo managed to pant in between moans and desperate little jerks of his hips, "if they come looking..."

"I would really like it," Thorin growled, sliding his hands down each softly fuzzed leg to pleasingly furry ankles, lifting each leg up and out and leaning back, bracing himself back on his knees, "if you would just shut up and take my cock." 

Bilbo's only reply was more breathy moans as Thorin settled into a hard rhythm, hands now tightly twisted in the bedding under him, and Thorin took advantage of his new position above a prone Bilbo to appreciate the view. His husband looked well and truly debauched this way, all soft and flushed and willing, laid out on the bed with his legs spread wide in the air, pretty cock bobbing with every slap of Thorin's hips against his own, skin pinked with arousal and the few gentle bites Thorin had not been able to stop himself making. His eyes were clenched shut, expression rapturous, perspiration dotting his face, and his cheeks flushed. Bilbo's hair was a riotous mess of sweaty locks above his head, though his braids were holding, smooth and sleek against the tangles, and Thorin's cock throbbed anew at the sight.

Thorin had missed his husband. Mahal how he had missed him! He missed the long arguments they had, some of them lasting for days. The two of them could, and did, argue about anything and everything. And just as easily about nothing, Thorin thought with a smirk. He missed the eagerness with which Bilbo had endeavoured to pick up the language and lore of his new Kinfolk. The enthusiasm of his One had been quite infectious and had gone far to endear the little Hobbit to a crowd of grumbling Dwarves who where initially a little perplexed by their leader’s choice of mate. But most of all he missed his husband’s undeniable good looks. Like all his folk, Thorin had an inborn appreciation of all things of beauty. And Bilbo was, in Thorin’s eyes a rare treasure indeed. 

"Beautiful," he choked out, thrusts truly losing rhythm now, sharp and fast, panting as Bilbo's hand released the bedding to frantically grip his own cock, fisting himself roughly, and that, combined with the sight of his own cock sliding into Bilbo's obscenely stretched entrance was the last straw. He tossed each ankle over his shoulders and braced himself, one hand either side of Bilbo's head and slammed forward, groaning loud and long at the shriek it earned him, and Bilbo's hands desperately grasping and tugging, pulling him down onto his elbows so the Hobbit could bite and claw at his neck and shoulders.

It was almost too much, heat pooling in the back of his knees and the top of his spine, like liquid silver trying to slide down his back and up his thighs, every frantic thrust drawing that molten feeling ever closer to his tightening sack, shoving Bilbo's legs down to lock around his waist so he could wrap his arms around his little One, desperately grasping for a lifeline as he felt all the delicious heat pool in his crotch, mouth fusing sloppily with Bilbo's and swallowing all those gurgled little helpless noises. 

Bilbo's legs jerked, his heels knocking against Thorin's arse and slickness hit his flexing abdomen, and with the resulting _clench_ , impossibly tight around Thorin's length, Thorin was gone, helpless to stop the broken rasping cry escaping his lips, his hips alternating between short frantic thrusts and holding himself pressed hard and still against Bilbo, his climax drawing out torturously long, until he buried his face in Bilbo's neck, feeling his husband tremble in concert with his own shaking.

"Stars of Mirrormere," he finally managed to gasp out after long long moments of helpless quivering, and Bilbo managed a rasping hiccup of laughter at his curse, before he shuddered anew. Thorin's eyes crossed at Bilbo's inadvertent squeeze, and he moaned. 

"Beard of _Durin_ , no more," he pleaded, and Bilbo laughed again, weakly tugging at Thorin's sweaty tangles until he lifted his head enough for their lips to gently slide dry and clumsy and perfect against each other for a few quiet minutes of soft affection, until Bilbo smirked against him, and then very deliberately _squeezed_. Thorin yelped. 

"Brat!" he cursed, landing a solid smack to his husband's hind quarters, while Bilbo helplessly giggled, laughter turning to a whine when Thorin pulled his considerable thickness from him, leaving him empty and dripping on the rumpled pile of Bilbo's discarded clothes beneath them.

"Not nice," Bilbo whimpered.

"That's what you get when you're naughty," Thorin admonished, gathering Bilbo close and rolling them onto a less sweat-soaked section of the bed, settling Bilbo on top of him with a satisfied sigh.

"Mmm, naughty," Bilbo hummed, wiggling happily, and Thorin couldn't help the laughter that bubbled up, warm and affectionate.

"You can play naughty in a bit," he chuckled tiredly, nuzzling against Bilbo's temple. "Let me recover, you tempting little tyrant."

"Mmmm," Bilbo hummed again, sighing softly, and Thorin knew he was already dozing, snuffling happily into his neck. He tightened his arms around his husband's body, relaxing in contentment against the beautifully soft mattress for a nap, the most peaceful rest he'd had for a very long time.

***

An innate ability of dwarves all across Arda, was the ability to _know_ the time of day without visual references. A dwarf in his natural habitat had no sun to guide his timetable, and even if they were, as a species, not that concerned with timeliness, they had still managed to develop a sense of the progression of a day. After all, any Dwarf worth his metal desired to know when to lay down his tools and take up his tankard.

Bilbo, despite having many bedrooms in his home on the left side of the hill -the best bedrooms of Bag End because they were the rooms with _windows_ \- despite that, Bilbo had apparently always preferred a bedroom without, so despite much change in the ambient light quality when Thorin awoke, he knew with certainty that the sun would very soon be just starting to rise. He stretched lazily, relishing in the aching soreness of well-used muscles. They had not managed to get to supper in the end, spending the entire night napping in between vigorous bouts of incredible love-making. 

Very soon they would have to rise. Today, they were leaving the Shire, starting the long journey to reclaim a mountain, and embark on a self-appointed mission to destroy the One Ring and defeat a Dark Lord. The months ahead promised to be long and hard, with no guarantees of success or survival. There was grief ahead, Thorin knew this. Today was the beginning of all that, and there was much to be done. But for now...

He curled around the welcoming sleep-warm body in his arms, sliding his hand down to wrap around his husbands length, grinning at the little moan and sleepy stretch as Bilbo started to wake. For now, he would relish this one last moment of peace with his One.

***

It was an entirely satisfied and glowing Bilbo that the dwarves discovered when they stumbled into the kitchen that morning looking for breakfast. The smell of warm loaves was already wafting, and several big pans on the stove were sizzling with something delicious. There were pots of tea on the table and jars of jam and honey, next to creamy slabs of butter. And the Hobbit humming as he flitted back and forth between different tasks, practically floating with happiness.

"Had a good night, then?" Kili asked with a lewd gesture and eyebrow waggle as they all wedged themselves around the table, tucking chairs and stools in close.

"A _very_ good night, by the sway in those hips," Fili leered dramatically, and the assembled Dwarfs snickered merrily. Bilbo rolled his eyes and huffed at them before grinning with them.

"A very, _very_ good night, thank you boys," he nodded. "Your Uncle is _extremely_ talented after all."

Both boys froze, a sense of impending doom sweeping over them with spine-tingling terror.

"Uh oh," Kili muttered.

"We so did not think that through," Fili agreed.

" _Extremely_ talented," Bilbo continued with a concealed smirk, stirring a pan, and moving to the table with a laden platter of smoked kippers. He leant on the back of Bofur's chair with an overly-emphasised sigh of satisfaction, leaning towards the boys in a show of imparting a great secret.

"He does this thing," he informed them. "He braces his shoulders and does something... _swively_ with his hips. I don't even know what it is, all I know is when he does that, my eyes roll to the back of my head, the entire world shifts eight feet to the left, and I've spent all the way up the bed head, the wall, the ceiling, Aunt Maureen's painting 'Tulip in Blue' across the room..." he trailed off with a self-satisfied sigh. "And of course, his cock is _magnificent_ -"

"Oh sweet Mahal, please stop," Fili asked quickly, dropping his head onto the table in front of him, trying to ignore the rest of the Dwarrows snickering at their plight.

"And he's _insatiable_ -"

"My brain hurts," Kili whined. "It should be completely hot but it's just really, really gross at the same time." 

"And he's so imaginatively filthy, I didn't even know half what he did to me was _possible_ before we met-"

"I can never unhear this," Fili continued, thumping his head a few times on the polished table top.

"Well, you will tease your Auntie, won't you boys?" Thorin admonished, strolling into the kitchen with the air of a big satisfied cat, heading straight to Bilbo for a kiss that had Bilbo's toes curling in delight.

"Are you being naughty again?" he asked Bilbo when he let go, gently smacking each of his nephews on the back of the head before sliding into a chair.

"Depends," the Hobbit answered with a cheeky grin as he headed back to the stove. "Are we playing the naughty game again? Definitely yes, I'm being naughty, if it's going to get me another spanking like last night's."

" _Ow_ , my _brain_ ," Kili whimpered while Dwalin and Bofur roared with laughter.

"Mahal, I love your Hobbit, cousin," Gloin chortled. 

"Seconded," Nori agreed when the eggs and devilled kidneys went on the table, helping himself. 

"You _enjoy_ being spanked?" Ori asked dazedly. "Is that a Hobbit thing?"

The entire table paused and stared at the younger dwarf for a moment, though strangely, it was Dori that blushed darkly, shaking his head and muttering to himself about inappropriate mealtime discussions, while Thorin just smirked, sprawled in his chair, the epitome of masculine pride and satisfaction.

" _Oh yes_ he enjoys it," Thorin murmured triumphantly.

"We'll have a talk later, little brother," Nori promised around a mouthful of eggs.

"Youngens," Balin complained, turning to Oin for a commiserating look.

"Don't look at me, I'm still young enough to enjoy a little creative spanking," Oin announced, the overly large bit of kipper on his fork threatening to smack Bombur in the eye as he waved it about. "Why, my Benny-"

"Sweet merciful Makers, no!" yelled Kili, indiscriminately tossing a fried tomato half in Oin's direction. Bifur caught the thing and popped it in his mouth whole and Bilbo rapped Kili sharply on the knuckles with his spatula when it looked like a second item may be tossed. " _No_ food fights at the breakfast table," he admonished sternly at Kili's yelp, though he plonked a plate of sweet pastries in front of the brothers when Kili turned those big wounded eyes upon him.

"Sucker," Thorin muttered, only perking up when Bilbo placed the largest and plumpest of the sweet berry-filled breads on his plate. 

The table went silent for a few minutes, while the Company tucked into their breakfast in earnest and Bilbo finished getting everything onto the poor overloaded table. Suddenly, the Hobbit stopped and frowned, gaze travelling over all those assembled.

"Where is Gandalf?" he asked, perplexed.

"Haven't seen him," Bofur said around a mouthful. "And I've been up since dawn-break."

"Hmmm," Bilbo mused, spatula going onto the bench, as he wandered off down the hall. He headed for the big-people guest room, knocking softly and listening carefully for movement. When no noise came from within, he knocked louder, calling the Wizard's name through the wood. There was still no answer, and Bilbo ever so hesitantly cracked the door open, peering carefully inside.

The room was empty, and the bed neatly made. Bilbo frowned again and closed the door, heading back to the kitchen.

"I'm not sure if he's slept and gone again, or never been in to sleep," he announced to the others with concern.

"Don't worry about the Wizard, he always turns up," Balin reassured him, reaching for a loaf and a jar of marmalade.

"Still," Bilbo fretted, loading a plate for the wizard to set aside, "where could he be?"

"Where could who be?" Gandalf asked, calmly stepping into the kitchen.

"Gandalf Greyhame!" Bilbo admonished for being startled into jumping, glaring at the taller being. "Where have you been?"

"I've been right here, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf admonished him right back, taking the loaded plate from Bilbo's hands and making himself comfortable in a chair that Bilbo swore had not been there just a second before hand. "A wizard is always precisely where he is meant to be."

"Always appearing at the worst of times, you mean. Like bad smells, taxes and unwelcome relatives," Bilbo grumbled, and Thorin turned a chuckle into a cough when the wizard glared. 

"Bilbo, eat something. We have to leave soon," Thorin coaxed, pulling him into his lap, and Bilbo gave him a look.

"Will I be permitted to ride my own mount today, or will I be in your lap again?" he asked archly, and blushed when Thorin gave him a wicked grin. "Oh, shut it," he huffed, and the assembled dwarves all guffawed loudly at the pun.

The rest of breakfast was quite relaxed, the calm before the coming storm of moving out, and after, Bilbo let the dwarves indulge in their version of cleaning, while he went into the bedroom to prepare, completely unwilling to watch his dishes flying around the room. After, he had all the dwarves strip off bedding and fold it ready to be washed by Mrs Goodchild after they were gone- he had already contracted his cleaning lady to come by and cover furniture and such, and have her sons shut up all the flues and such. And Holman and his cousin (and new apprentice) Hamfast Gamgee had promised to stop by and tend the gardens on a regular basis and agreed to manage the harvest if Bilbo wasn’t back in time. He just had to get this lot of dwarves _out_ before they all came that afternoon to get started. From there, it was a flurry of movement, fires completely banked and buried, shutters secured, and the cold cellars emptied.

Before he let them out the house though, he had them lined up like faunts in his kitchen, fussing over packets of supplies for the packs. 

"Oat cakes, buns and sandwiches for later, everyone take a parcel, the sandwiches and buns should do as lunch today. And everybody take something from the produce basket there, too. These packs are my version of cram, a good supply of dried fruits and nuts and bits I find is quite tasty and surprisingly filling in a pinch, oh, and biscuits! And I expect you to keep those until we actually need it. All of you are taking flour packets and dried meat parcels, and these ones are coin, keep it on you at all times, well hidden, understood?" 

"You're... giving us coin?" Bofur asked incredulously, handling the flat, unassuming leather pouch Bilbo passed him gingerly, as if he could break it by looking at it.

"It is a long way to Erebor, and there may be times where circumstances separate us from our supplies or each other. We must be cautious."

"Yes, but. You're giving us coin?"

"Mother of-! There's ten gold coins a-piece here. About a tenth heavier than the coins of Men, and a fair bit purer too. And the same again with silver!" Gloin exclaimed over the coins, fiddling with a coin with great concentration.

Weighing his own parcel in hand, Thorin was not entirely sure how he was supposed to feel. He, too, had stashed as much coin he could justify taking on his person before leaving, knowing that it was quite likely their supplies would be lost several times over again, but this was... generous. Actually, it passed generous and into slightly surreal. Bofur's incredulousness was not limited to the miner. It was quite likely that this was the most wealth that the Dwarf had ever held in his hand at any one time. The others, he could see, were just as shocked. For a people that had to scrape pretty damn low to prise every measly copper from the fists of the Men they worked and traded with, being handed such a wealth was startling. And from someone they hardly knew. 

Had they the memories of Bilbo they should have, they would not question it. They would know that there really was nothing that Bilbo would not do to see his Dwarves as safe as he could make them. As it was, Thorin was certain that the only reason that they would accept the parcels in good faith without suspicion was Bilbo's status as his consort.

"Bilbo, you don't have to-"

"Yes, yes I do. Your people are my people. I sold a nice piece of property to a relative a few weeks back, and, well, troll hoard, so my coffers are quite full. I have more sewn into my travel clothes and more stashed here and there, just in case. You _know_ all the things that could go wrong, Thorin. If we had time, I'd be taking needle and thread to everyone's seams." 

"Actually, that's a good idea. We can sew this into the lining of everybody's cloaks this evening when we make our first stop. Tricky by firelight, but it can be done," Dori mused, fingering the money in the pouch with a frown of concentration.

"I'll bring extra for that, then, we'll not use this lot. And best to sew into tunics and trousers, johns if you could stand it. Armour and cloaks can be lost or taken if one is captured. And we can do that when we stop at the inn tonight."

"We're heading overland to the Great East Road, lad, there's no inn for a while for us," Balin informed Bilbo gently, and Bilbo shot Thorin a look.

"I hadn't got to it yet," Thorin mumbled in his defence. Honestly, there hadn't been any time to tell the others last night. He'd perched himself in a tree for an hour, and then taken Bilbo to bed.

"Well, you can get to it now while I raid my safe," Bilbo said pointedly, huffing out of the room. Thorin groaned as the Company turned to him with raised eyebrows.

"Right," he sighed, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table and fishing his stack of maps out of where he'd wedged them in his jerkin.

"I know that the plan was to make all haste to the Great East Road, and then take the High Pass over the Misty Mountains, and continue East as far as we could. Bilbo has some misgivings though."

" _We've_ had misgivings about that plan for weeks," Oin grumbled.

"Lad really does have you by the soft rocks, eh?" Dwalin remarked, plonking himself opposite his King with a smirk.

"Bilbo," Thorin continued irritably, "has very recently travelled the route. He had some disturbing news. Orc raiding parties venturing down to the Great East Road. Goblin traps all over the Mountains to snare travelers, and the Trolls he raided were far to close to the road. Here," he pointed to a spot on the map.

"Trolls never venture that far down," Gandalf frowned. 

"Nevertheless, that is where they were," Thorin huffed.

"So, you would like to change the route?" Balin asked, looking more than a little relieved. He'd been the strongest voice for a longer-but-safer path. Thorin nodded.

"Well, let's face it, travelling the Great East Road was always going to take us through this here lovely land known as The Shire. Now we actually have a cute little Hobbit husband, I bet you're not feeling that obstinate about sticking to that there plan, ay?" Bofur informed them all cheerfully. 

Thorin felt his ears turn red. Truthfully, the first time, through the Shire had been half that it was the fastest path to the quickest route to Erebor, and half that Gandalf had made him stop off to collect his burglar. This time, it completely had been, in all truth, to retrieve his Hobbit husband. He really hadn't been looking forward to tackling Trolls, Orcs, Elves and Goblins again taking the Great East Road. Circumstances meant they could completely avoid that now.

"Regardless, that information, coupled with... well. There is something else, but I am not comfortable discussing it with you, yet. What I can tell you is that it is imperative that Bilbo go to Lothlorien to see the Elvish Witch. He would like to go South, out the lands of his kin and across the Sarn Ford. From there we would travel the North-South Road to Tharbad." Thorin traced a path with his finger along one map, before switching to another.

"Now, from there, he had thought to continue traveling the Road down to the most Southern Point of the Misty Mountains and into Rohan. From there, we would skirt the boundary between the Wold and Fangorn, and continue up to Lorien. However, we know the plains of Dunland, and if we cut across..."

"Our kin-passes south of Moria should still be there. We can skim through the lower Mountains and make our way back up towards the Nimrodel and into Lorien. Faster, a little riskier, but a much unused path. Orcs from Moria would be more likely to be looking North for travelers. Hopefully, we will pass through unnoticed," Balin finished for him, nodding thoughfully.

"Straight into a forest full of Elves, though," Gloin complained, face twisting uncomfortably.

"Ah, but an encounter with Elves may be just what we need," Gandalf mused, fishing in amongst his person for a scrap of paper he withdrew. "I meant to give this to you last night, Thorin, but you disappeared after our little evening in the tree.

"This," he continued, spreading the paper out on the table in front of Thorin, "belonged to your father. He gave it to me many years back to pass to you -though it took me a long time to discern exactly who his son was- and now I have done so. It is a map of the Lonely Mountain and the surrounding lands. Note the rune in red on the West part of the mountain and the hand pointing towards it. A secret entrance."

The Company descended into excited chatter at the news.

"'Ere, hang on, what's to say that Smaug hasn't found that passage?" Dori demanded.

"Read the map, it says there, 'Five foot high the door, and three may walk abreast'. No way a great bugger like Smaug could fit through there," Nori said.

"If it's a true Dwarvish passage, we should be more concerned about finding it upon the mountain side. And opening it!" Ori told his brothers.

"Doesn't really give us much to go on, though, does it? We already know what the surrounding land is like, and the paths to the mountain. The west side of the mountain is an awful lot of mountain to search for a door that is probably very well hidden," Oin fussed.

"Don't secret doors usually have magic woven over them or something to open?" Kili asked with a frown.

"Ah, that I am sure is where the other item Thrain passed to me comes in," Gandalf announced, rifling through his robes again to withdraw a long key made of silver, heavy with elaborate protective runes. Thorin took it from him, examining it solemnly for a moment before carefully threading it onto the gold chain he wore under his clothing. A hand stroking gently over his hair alerted Thorin to Bilbo's silent return from wherever he kept his gold hidden, and he shook himself slightly.

"Bilbo needs to seek the Elves regardless, but why do you think that we need their assistance with a Dwarvish map?" Thorin asked, careful to keep any hint of aggression towards Elves from his tone. Gandalf eyed him a moment before gesturing to the map.

"There is something about this map that is... indiscernible. I had thought to take council with Elrond of Rivendell, who is skilled at seeing what others do not. Galadriel of the Golden Forest may be able to do the same. After she is done with Mister Baggins' business..." he trailed off, his eyes suddenly boring into the two of them. Thorin shivered a little under that gaze. One should not forget that this foolish seeming old man was much much more than that. Much more.

"From Lorien," Thorin continued, ignoring the Wizard's silent demand for answers, "we have two options. We could venture east once more, and go around Mirkwood. I would prefer, though, to head up along the Anduin until we hit the Narrows of Mirkwood, and cut through to the East Bight and up the outside of Mirkwood to Esgaroth. From there, it is a short journey to Erebor."

The Company all sat silently examining the maps for a minute. Gandalf, though, was still examining Thorin and Bilbo with narrowed gaze. 

"Does anybody have any objections?" Thorin asked, leaning back into Bilbo's hold.

"A longer journey," Balin mused. "But I have long been worried about attracting too much attention on the trip. Mayhap that we actually arrive at our destination without incident."

"Our initial budget could withstand the additional supply requirements, even before Mister Baggins here added the additional funds," Gloin added his banker's opinion with a nod that Thorin took as both agreement to the new plan, and Bilbo's generous additions. Gloin and his brother _were_ funding their little venture here, no doubt Gloin was also considering the financial benefits of an additional benefactor and staying on their good side. No bad thing, when one had family to consider, and the prospect that they may fail in this mission.

They could yet fail. Prior knowledge was one thing, but Thorin was pretty sure that he and Bilbo had changed enough of what was to come to still make this one hell of a risky venture.

When none of the others seemed ready to make any objections, indeed, most of them were nodding and looking quite agreeable, Thorin let himself relax.

"I suppose we had better get going then," Bilbo stated firmly. There was a moment of quiet before Kili gave an exuberant woop of joy and the lot of them were a sudden whirl of motion, packing and double checking and traipsing out the door. 

Bilbo, however, was still. Once again he was leaving his home. There was no denying it this time; once he walked out that door, he would be Bilbo Baggins, Under-Hill no more. He may come back- if they survived, if they achieved all the lofty goals they had set themselves, if they finally won that desired peace and happiness, then he would be back. Back to Bag-End for one last time. He may even sell the place to Lobelia! It would be worth it, just to see the look of astonishment on her face. And even though Bilbo had been quite senile by the time Frodo had come for him after the quest to destroy the ring, he had still heard, and remembered, what Frodo had told him of Lobelia during and after the scouring of the Shire. Even if she would not remember any of her own actions, she perhaps could still receive some sort of reward.

He jumped slightly when Thorin's hand gently wound his shoulder, looking up into sympathetic eyes.

"Last chance," Thorin whispered.

Bilbo hummed, looking around one last time. A home is only a home if it holds the ones you love. And the ones he loved were all making one heck of a racket out in the lane, ready to ride out into the wilds towards certain doom. And standing with him, a warm steady presence that Bilbo was determined to never be separated from again. 

"Time to go," Bilbo grinned, leaning up on the tips of his toes to press his lips to Thorin's cheek before tugging him towards the front hall. "Come on, Pretty, we'll never make our stop before dark at this rate!"

" _Pretty!_ " Thorin sputtered as they tumbled out the door, much to the amusement of the gathered Company, Bilbo winking at him with a giggle as he threw his cloak and hood on and pulled the door firmly shut, twisting the key with a great air of excited finality. One last pat of the door, one last look from the lane, and he turned his back, taking a deep breath.

"Time to go, you lot!" he called to the others, shooing them down the lane. "Get those supplies on the ponies, and Mister Bifur, I don't suppose you have a carrot somewhere on your person? We'll need it to get Thistle going. No doubt the stable boys will be right happy to be rid of him. My donkey, however," he chattered as he made his way down towards the Rumble stables, "is just the sweetest thing. Don't worry, she can keep up with the ponies, I n-"

"WAIT!" Thorin suddenly bellowed from behind him, and Bilbo froze mid-step and mouth still open, till Thorin strode to stand in front of him, scowling seriously.

"Have you got your handkerchief?" he asked, low and somber. Bilbo stared.

And then he started to giggle.

"Before we get too far, if you need to go back for your snot-rags-"

His giggles turned to belly-jiggling chortles, legs wobbling slightly under the strain.

"I'm serious, Bilbo, if I have to listen to you complain about pony hair up your schnoz the whole-"

Bilbo howled, wrapping his arms around Thorin's middle, tears of laughter leaking all over Thorin's furs while his husband spluttered.

"It's not funny, I am being a helpful and caring husband-"

Bilbo leaned up to press his lips to Thorin's pursed and sulking lips and tugged him into walking, arms still wrapped around his husband and stumbling drunkenly with his giggles, Thorin grumbling under his breath.

"Thirteen Dwarves and a Wizard are up a tree..." he started, still giggling...


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are folks, a bit more. Next chapter will be delayed a bit, I am sorry. Stuff is happening for the next week or so. 
> 
> Everyone wave at Beta-Beth for being awesome once more! I tell you, having a Brit who happens to be an expert in all things food and Tolkien is kick-arse. Honestly. And she sends me cold rainy weather when I bitch about Australian summers. Honestly, I GOT THE COLD WET! Beth, you are magic.

Riding out of Hobbiton and through Bywater to Tuchborough was somehow... refreshing. He'd spent the last couple of months moping like a numpty, and now, well. This had never been any of the cicumstances in which he thought he would be leaving the Shire. 

"Alright, lads, I've got one," Nori proclaimed behind him. "So, a Man walks into a bar and calls out a challenge. '10 gold pieces to any who can down 10 pints of Dwarvish Ale without bein' laid out, eh?'. The bar goes silent, and one Dwarf stands and leaves the bar. Business continues, and the Man sits smug, since no body has come forth to take the challenge."

"This is your fault, you know," Thorin muttered beside him. "If you hadn't started with all those 'Dwarves in a tree' jokes, we'd be making better time."

"Hush, I'm listening," Bilbo grinned.

"So, half an hour after this Man has made his challenge, the dwarf that left earlier comes back and asks him if that challenge is still on the table. 'Aye,' says the Man, 'if you've the nads for it'. And he orders the drinks."

"It'll be getting dark soon," Thorin muttered, rolling his eyes when Bilbo glared at him.

"So, sure as anything, the dwarf downs the drinks, quaffing them down one after the other without pause, not even spilling a drop. The Man is impressed, and pays the Dwarf his gold, but before he leaves he asks, 'Tell me, I must know, why did you leave at first?'. The Dwarf looks up from pocketing his winnings and says 'I went to the inn across the road. 10 pints, I had to know if I could do it first!'"

The Company cheered and Thorin moaned and looked to the sky. "That is a very old, very flogged to death joke," he told Bilbo, who was chuckling in his saddle.

" _I_ havn't heard it before," he told him softly, as Bofur started one about a lass with locks to her ankles.

"The way they're going, you'll hear every dwarvish joke around by the time we reach this inn of yours."

"It's not far," Bilbo chuckled at Thorin's disgruntled expression. It might have been more genuine if Bilbo had never seen Thorin _actually_ disgruntled. 

"How can you tell?" Thorin asked incredulously, looking around the very green pastures surrounding the, well, not _road_. Path perhaps? Whatever it would be called, this stretch was hardly any more identifiable than the stretch they had travelled a half hour before, or the stretch a half hour before. It was all the same, rolling green hills, and fields full of unidentifiable growing things. And more rolling green hills. Grass. The occasional cow or twenty, and about a million or so trees.

"We'll be there in the next hour, just you see," Bilbo said firmly, shaking his head in exasperation. Honestly, _dwarves_. Utterly hopeless above ground.

"I've got one!" Kíli bellowed behind them, and Thorin groaned, long and low.

"Please, please, please not the short joke," he mumbled, eyes closing a moment in supplication. 

“You know which joke he is going to tell?” Bilbo queried in an undertone.

“We all know the joke he’s going to tell” muttered Thorin with a long-suffering sigh.

"Why are Dwarves so short?" Kíli asked brightly, and the whole lot of them groaned as one. Bilbo raised an eyebrow, staring around, waiting for one of them to submit the requisite 'why?'.

"I don't know, why?" he asked, when it looked like no body else would.

"You had to go and ask," Thorin grizzled beside him, rolling his shoulders. It was good to feel Orcrist sitting across his back again.

"Because we're weighed down by our awesome!" Kíli cheered on cue, and Bilbo could not prevent the burst of giggles escaping him. He really should have expected something like that. Kíli beamed at the response from him, puffing up and pointing to Bilbo.

"Auntie likes my jokes," he told Fíli. 

"Your Auntie has bad taste," Thorin grizzled, tossing Kíli a lopsided grin to take this sting out.

"Ay, proof of my bad taste riding next to me?" Bilbo asked with raised eyebrow, and Thorin scowled at him.

" _Zing_!" Fíli crowed, grinning. "Our Auntie's a quick one, isn't he?"

Thorin aimed another mock scowl over his shoulder, to the amusement of his Company, but truly, it was good to see that Fíli had bounced back from the gloom and worry that had clouded him so strongly the night before. Thorin was pretty sure his, well, complete and utter _overshare_ , had gone over well, since his nephews were near buoyant with excitement again. Ah, the joys of youth.

Behind him, Glóin started a joke based on a truly atrocious Men's fable about seven Dwarrows who'd taken up with some lass with a sleep disorder, and Thorin groaned again. Beside him, Bilbo was already chuckling.

"Oh, shut it," he sighed.

***

True to Bilbo's word, the rolling grassy hills they travelled through suddenly had fences and paths and little windows and doors tucked into them, and not long after, they arrived at The Sleepy Oliphont in the very lowest region of the West Farthing. Really, they had barely made 15 miles travel that day, and could probably gone several more, _would_ have gone much further if they had not had left so late in the morning, but this was the last comfortable stop for his Company for a very long time. Like most inns anywhere in all of Arda, it was more a local tavern with a few rooms attached for those too drunk to make the trip home. And, Bilbo told Thorin, the few Rangers that ventured into the lower region of The Shire through Green Hill Country on their way to Michel Delving and beyond, often stayed at this particular stop, as Tooks were far more eager to feed the travelling folk up well in exchange for a story or two. 

A fact that Bilbo had failed to mention, was that the inn was actually currently run by Bilbo's uncle Isengar and his wife, who was apparently a Grubb- whatever that was, and therefore family, apparently, through the Baggins’ side, which appeared to be married with the Grubbs quite frequently, judging by Bilbo's hushed and hurried family line up, none of which Thorin had actually retained. All he knew was, that they were lucky they were not affected by inbreeding

Could explain the lack of beards, though.

Isengar and Gladius Took, however, were Family that were completely unaware, but extremely concerned that dear little Bilbo ('My sister's only son, you, you _Dwarf!_ ' -' _Uncle!_ ) had somehow married a Dwarrow without their knowledge. So concerned, they had sent for several of Bilbo's other relatives. Already, the scene in the main tavern was becoming something of a spectacle, Thorin being placed at a table right in the centre of the room, alternately fussed over and stared at sternly by all the surrounding Hobbits -growing in number each time he looked up- who were gathered around him.

His Company, however, after being interrogated by scary lady Hobbits until they had treasonously declared themselves 'just the help', were set to the side with quite the merry feast and largely left to themselves. It seemed that the spectacle of 'Belladonna's lad and his Dwarrow' were far more interesting than his companions.

Presently, Thorin was alternating between dutifully eating all the, admittedly delicious, morsels his husband kept shoving at him, and returning the unblinking stare of the intimidating tiny Hobbit crone that Bilbo had named 'Great Aunt' and who had been introduced to Thorin as Tillaberry Took ('You'll call me Mistress Took, boy'), sitting opposite him. 

"Tell me, boy," she finally asked as Bilbo shoved a forkful of spicy marinated meat into his face, "are you in love with my great-nephew?"

"Yes, Mistress Took," Thorin answered, though that was _all_ he could answer, as Bilbo took his open mouth as an invitation to shove the meat in it, and he chewed quickly when he saw Mistress Took gather herself for another question, shooting Bilbo a glare. 

"Why then," Mistress demanded, "did we receive no intent to court? No notice of engagement? No invitation to the marriage celebrations? Where exactly have you _been_ , and how exactly is it that you managed to marry my great nephew?"

"Er-"

"It was a long time ago, Great Aunt," Bilbo butted in. "Don't you remember what a wanderer I used to be, when I was younger?" 

"A _lot_ younger." Mistress Took scowled ferociously. "Barely old enough to be courting."

"Barely, but still old enough," Bilbo said hurriedly. "And he was very kind and proper. We met while he was smithing in Bree, on that first trip I took, remember, I was 34? And I went back many times over the years to see him. When we eventually married, it was outside the Shire, and according to the traditions of his people. And then, something happened, and I thought that Thorin. Well. I thought he was dead. He just only recently came looking for me, and here we are!" he finished brightly, desperately willing the sharp old lady to buy his cobbled together story.

Bilbo had spent a lot of time over the last several months coming up with various excuses and stories to pass himself off to Thorin and Gandalf with what knowledge he had. Not once in all that time had he ever bothered constructing stories for his overly curious Took relatives on where on Middle-Earth he had been hiding a Dwarf husband. Bother it all. 

Thank goodness the rest of the dwarves were seated a ways from them, since the tentative timeline they had hinted at with the Company would not add up with his current fibs _at all_.

And Great Aunt Tillaberry was not buying his tosh, judging by the stony stare.

"And why did your husband not come and find you, to tell you he was alive before this?" she asked with great skeptisism.

"Oh, well-"

"That was me being a coward," Thorin interrupted, drawing her narrow eyed gaze away from his flushed and fidgeting husband. "Truthfully, I thought him lost to me. My actions the last time we met were not honourable. I was a complete cad and a failure as a proper spouse. I did not come looking, because I thought that even if he was alive, he deserved far better than I."

Great Aunt Tilla stared at them, sharp and silent while she sipped at a jug of mead Isengar brought her, while Bilbo managed to feed him a few more slices of meat and a breaded dish that was quite delectable- though Thorin really wished he could be feeding himself. All attempts to take the fork, or simply use his fingers had resulted in jabs to unarmoured parts of his body and pitiful looks from Bilbo. Reluctantly, he stuck to opening his mouth when demanded and kept his hands wrapped around his tankard.

"It's complete hogwash," Great Aunt Mistress Took declared, slamming down her mug. The ruckus made many of the Dwarves in their Company look over in worry, and Bilbo felt panic welling up at the sight. They were going to be caught out in their lies in a moment, and then there would be trouble. Aunt Tilla had the authority to have his Uncles drag him off to the Great Smials for his own protection if she deemed it necessary, and who knows what the Company would do if they thought that Thorin was actually lying to them about Bilbo and everything else he had said over the last two days.

Quite panicked at the sight of Dwalin narrowing his gaze, and Balin half out of his seat, Bilbo, well. He crawled into Thorin's lap. There was no real logical rhyme or reason to do so, really, just that Thorin represented every safety he knew at the moment. And it worked. Thorin wrapped his arms around his Hobbit and nuzzled into his hair, until Bilbo calmed enough to speak.

(Truthfully, Thorin would have been inclined to comfort his Hobbit regardless, but doling his affection out as obviously as he was couldn't hurt. He stroked a gentle hand over Bilbo's back and crooned softly, nosing at the soft curls atop Bilbo's head. Aunt Tilla did not miss a thing.)

"Auntie, I know that Thorin is not quite the spouse you had in mind for me-but truthfully, you cannot believe that I actually would have married Amaranth Brandybuck-" 

"She is a perfectly respectable-"

"She's a _Brandybuck_ , Great Aunt, I'm not Took enough to want to endure that. And she's not long come of age!"

"She's 37, Bilbo, and not getting any younger! A lovely lass-"

"But it doesn't matter, Great Aunt, because I love _Thorin_ , and he loves me, and although our wedding was not quite standard for Hobbit traditions, the vows are quite similar! Similar enough. And there were Elves and Men there as witness, too, and a W-"

" _Bilbo!_ " Thorin cut in sharply. It would not do to go and proclaim there was a Wizard as witness to their wedding, as Wizards were thin on the ground these days. Gandalf had disappeared again, but should he randomly reappear at a wrong moment -as he was wont to do- and question such a fact, then there would be trouble.

"What I mean to say, is," Thorin hurried to continue, "that Bilbo should not need to argue so fiercely with his kin in this matter. Surely his happiness is more important than timing and propriety?"

"Oh, you shouldn't have said that," Bilbo groaned softly into his shoulder.

"Oh, _propriety_ , so you want to go there, do you, young Son? You'd like to discuss how often you seduced a young Hobbit into a tumble before this supposed marriage?"

" _Auntie!_ " Bilbo exclaimed, while Thorin managed to turn an impressive purple colour before he forced himself to breathe.

"Bilbo is my _husband_ ," he gritted out between clenched teeth. "Not some, some _five minute roll in a haystack_. There was no seducing happening during our courtship. If anyone was seducing anybody, it was certainly the other way around."

" _Excuse me?_ " Bilbo demanded, suddenly stiff in his lap.

"You kissed me. You yelled at me, and then you _kissed_ me."

"I was pushed," Bilbo cried in exasperation, hands flying in the air in his agitation.

"There was no pushing, you _kissed_ me," Thorin grinned, hugging Bilbo a little tighter.

(Thorin would never ever forget that moment. Fíli may have clapped him a little too firmly on the back, and Bilbo had fallen forward into his arms. But he had... _softened_ at the contact. Thorin would never forget that, the way his Hobbit had melted into his grip, the slight tilt of his chin to push his soft little lips to Thorin's own, the way he had seemed to become wholly Thorin's in that moment. The way he had smashed down every last brick in Thorin's wall of resistance. The moment he had become Thorin's.)

"You kissed me," he crooned, grinning in delight at Bilbo's (adorable) scowl.

"Pushed," Bilbo argued weakly, swaying gently into Thorin's space.

"Seduced me with kisses," Thorin murmered back, leaning in, eyes on the beguiling softness of those plump lips, such delicious lips that led to a warm wet place for him to slide his tongue and make his little Hobbit moan. If he just leant in a little...

"Well." Mistress Took said sharply, startling the two of them out of their momentary focus on each other, but that seemed to be all she had to say on the matter, and she and all the other assorted Tooks and miscellaneous gawking Hobbits were quiet and keen gazed as they took in the sight of Bilbo cuddling and flirting with his Dwarf.

"Speaking of romps," Aunt Tilla suddenly said, waving a hand in the air, face all at once pleasant and smiling. "You must come to stay at the Smials soon."

"Absolutely not," Bilbo said firmly.

"But Bilbo, dear, how are we to know if he's a good husband if you don't come to stay?"

"Er-" Thorin, now much confused, looked from his husband to Bilbo's aunt.

"You'll just have to take my word for it!" Bilbo defended loudly, to the snickers of the onlookers.

"I'll never forget the first morning that poor Bungo stayed after he married Bella," one of the Uncles laughed. "Poor fellow."

"Belladonna worked him hard that night," another of the numerous Uncles leered, to the raucous cheers of the assembled Hobbits.

"Oh, Yavanna's tits," Bilbo muttered into Thorin's shoulder.

"Bilbo?" Thorin asked with no small amount of trepidation. Between Bilbo's cursing and the implication that these relatives wanted to watch him mount his Hobbit, he was becoming a little worried.

Not that he had any _reason_ to be worried. He was a fine figure of a Dwarf, dammit, and skilled between the sheets. It was just _private_.

"It's a ridiculous Took custom," Bilbo sighed. "Tooks bring their new spouse back to stay at the Great Took Halls, and stay in the Blue Room, a room for newly weds. A room that happens to have an odd amplification of sound happening. New additions to the family are judged on exactly how loud they can make their Took spouses scream."

"You would be most welcome, wouldn't he, Isembold?" Mistress Took grinned, with far more teeth showing than what Thorin was strictly comfortable in the circumstances.

"Uh-"

"Most welcome!" one of the Hobbit Uncles bellowed.

"Another night, perhaps," Bilbo gritted out. "We're travelling very early tomorrow."

"We could put a good breakfast in your belly before you leave, then," Aunt Tilla replied blithely.

"Thorin is very tired from travelling," Bilbo insisted.

"Not that tired," Thorin frowned, slightly offended by the thought that his husband did not think him impressive enough to satisfy his voyeuristic relatives. Bilbo shot him a _look_.

“You are not seriously thinking of going through with this ridiculous custom! “ hissed Bilbo in disbelief. Thorin only smirked, so Bilbo continued his half-whispered objections.

“They want to hear if you can make me squeal…and we both know you can do that! But likely as not they won’t hear me as you’re so damned loud yourself!” Bilbo looked up hopefully as Thorin acknowledged the truth of this but then just drew him closer. Damn him but Thorin was enjoying this far too much!

“And of course out of courtesy I’d have to invite the whole of the Company – and ensure they got prime rooms for the spectacle!” Bilbo held back a grin at what was surely a killer blow. …and groaned in disbelief as Thorin looked over at his Kin and winked before nodding in agreement.

Well if Thorin wasn’t going to listen to reasion. Curse him! Then perhaps that last argument would work on Bilbo’s own folk?

"We couldn't possibly leave the rest of the Company unattended," Bilbo tried one last time.

"They'll be fine here, and if they aren't, there's plenty of room at the Halls," Gladius said, plonking a plate of sweets down in front of them. Bilbo gazed at her pleadingly and she snickered.

"If I could endure the indignity, so can you," she whispered to her nephew before swishing off.

*********

"Well?" Balin asked Nori as he ever so casually meandered back to their allocated table. Nori took a pull from a tankard while the others made sure to be looking like they were still enjoying their feast, and absolutely not keeping a very close eye on the spectacle in the middle of the room.

"You were right, the stories don't add up," he informed the Company. "According to what Thorin and Bilbo are implying over there and a few discreet enquiries, the two supposedly met between fifteen and ten years ago, while Thorin was smithing in Bree for the Men. They've been married a long while, but our new Consort never let on that he was married in all these years, and his family have never heard of or seen any Dwarf in all that time. And old Inquisitor Granny there doesn't believe a word of it." Nori paused for a moment to chomp through one of the amazing little pie-lets on a plate and swig some more of his pint while the others processed what they had heard.

"Kíli and I were apprenticed to Uncle during those years," Fíli said slowly. "We did a few months here and there in Bree, true, but nothing planned or regular, and there was no Hobbit hanging about. Uncle didn't trust us alone, and he kept us by his side constantly. We'd have known if there was a courting happening, no matter how discreet." Kíli nodded in agreement and the others looked back to Nori.

"Now, the really interesting bit, is that his cousins over in the corner there swear that young Bilbo has not left this here Shire in most definitely ten years. He's been 'most Baggins-ish', which I gather is their way of calling him a boring old sod. But, couple of months ago, Mr Baggins over there evidently has some sort of mental break down. Goes a bit funny in the head for a few days, doing all sorts of outlandish things, that culminates in him sobbing his guts out in his parlour or something. Bad enough that the rumours are flying thick and fast through the whole Shire about what could've turned him cuckoo overnight. Next thing the local folk know, he's up and disappeared, gone for almost six weeks before he stumbles back with a whole whack of 'Mathoms', whatever the hell they are. Been mostly quiet, staying out of sight until about four days ago, when he apparently started cooking and carrying on like he'd be hosting a horde. And making out a will, even."

"I knew it," Bombur exclaimed quietly. "The way he was, it seemed like he knew we were coming! He must have known, if he were cooking and such days before Gandalf came to see him. And he had all those supplies ready! Unless the Wizard was lying to us and had already told Mister Bilbo about our quest ages ago."

"No, I think this is a bit deeper than that," Glóin mused, stroking the beads his Glís had woven in before they had left the Blue Mountains. "The Wizard has been keeping a very sharp eye on the two, very sharp. He's suspicious of them, like us."

"Not like us," Dori said firmly. " Tharkûn doesn't trust Thorin. We do. Correct?" He glared around the table, checking for a unified agreement.

"Aye, we trust him, but you have to admit, there's something going on here that ain't quite right," Bofur insisted, biting at his nails. "For the last six months, all we've heard from Thorin is 'Erebor Erebor Erebor, take back the Lonely Mountain, Reclaim Our Heritage, Erebor'. All of a sudden, he turns into some worry-wart mother-hen. Then there's 'Meet the wife!' Now, it's 'Hey, let's go visit some elves'. I ain't complaining, I'm just..."

"Worried," Balin finished for him, nodding. "We all are. He's been like this for a few weeks now. I thought he'd had a change of heart, but, here we are."

"It couldn't be magic, could it?" Bombur asked in a near whisper, face twisted in worry.

"If it is, who's doing it? I doubt it's old Gandalf, he seems just as befuddled by Thorin's behaviour as we are."

"Well, there's the obvious," Óin suggested with a frown. The Company looked over to the continuing spectacle in the centre of the room.

"The Hobbit?" Dwalin asked with disbelief, and Óin shrugged.

"I know it doesn't seem likely..."

Under the fussing attention of his relatives, Mister Baggins was visibily growing more and more tense, his arm wrapped across his own body as his back tightened, shoulders drawing in. A soothing hand running the full length of his spine and a whisper from Thorin made the tension drain, and Bilbo shot the dwarf a grateful look, even smiling when Thorin took a momentary distraction amongst the other Hobbits to roll his eyes dramatically.

The way they leaned into each other, perfectly comfortable within each other's space. Like the person next to them was just an extension of themselves. That was something that even magic could not possibly accomplish, surely?

"If that's magic, I want some," Ori said firmly. "What?" he asked defensively when Dori looked at him askance, "They look like what they have told everyone they are! In love!"

"They do," Nori agreed. "They look, well. They look like they've been married for years. Years and years and still one of those sickening couples that's still all loopy for each other."

"If it were magic, I would say that Mister Baggins would also be under the influence, rather than a victim himself. As it is, it does not follow any magics that I know of," Balin said thoughtfully, rocking slightly and rubbing his fingers together. He felt in dire need of his pipe, but he'd left the blasted thing with his bags again. Dwalin scowled at him. Balin scowled back.

"I know what you're thinking, boy, and kindly remember who the elder between us is, eh?" Balin admonished Dwalin. Couldn't keep a thing from his brother. Dwalin passed him his own pipe, pulled from somewhere.

"If it ain't a history book, you've no idea where you've left anything," Dwalin mumbled, retrieving the last of the jammy biscuits off a plate, much to the trembling-lip disappointment of the youngest boys.

(Óin, tender-hearted he was under all the gruff- stretched an arm across the table and placed a small tray in front of the two long faces. One of the Hobbit-lasses who had brought the food to them had called the delicacy an ‘oatcake’ but it was like no oatcake the dwarves had ever seen. These were larger, and softer and wrapped around a filling of meat and melted cheese they were uncommonly delicious. Enough to turn the two back into happy eager pups, at any rate.)

A pipe in his hand was Balin's favourite way to think. He regarded his king carefully, wondering.

"It's like a house one has built," he said finally. "That one never cleans much. The individual that resides in that house sees it as the same house they have always lived in, even as long years pass and dust settles thicker and thicker. But, if one day that house is given the scrubbing it has not seen since it was built, one sees the house it was, under all the unnoticed grime.

"Thorin is the house," he elaborated when some of his companions looked somewhat perplexed. "It is only seeing him now that I realise that the Thorin I knew long ago has been buried a while. Stuck under the grime of life."

"You and your poetic soul, cousin," Glóin chuckled. "No no!" he said when Balin glared. "I know exactly what you mean. It's been good to see him smile."

"So, what do we do?" Fíli asked. "We know Uncle is lying to us, but he hasn't really given us enough detail to call him out on anything. There have been changes to the basic plan we had for the quest, but the destination seems to be the same and our goal has not shifted. We came here for a Burglar, and we _have_ one, even if that Burglar seems to be mysteriously married to our King. Thorin has suffered some sort of a personality shift, but seems to be better for it. There is enough here for us to have cause to worry, but what do we all intend to do about it?"

"I will follow Uncle, no matter the status of our Quest," Kíli said firmly. "He is both our Liege and our Kin. I will not abandon him."

"None of us is going to abandon him, lad," Bifur said. He'd been quiet for the most part, observing from his corner. "We're the Company of Thorin Oakenshield, not the Company of Erebor."

"I suppose the question is," Bofur mused, "how many of us came for the gold? And how many came for Thorin?"

"I came for the gold," Nori said flippantly. Dori glared.

"You liar. You found out Ori was coming, flipped your lid and yelled for three hours before marching down to tell Thorin he better not get us all killed!"

"So did you! But you haven't stopped yelling yet!" Nori threw his hands in the air in exasperation. 

"I _came_ because Thorin _asked_ me, you twat. And also, because Ori had already gone and signed on as Scribe."

"Ha!" Nori crowed.

Ori glared at them both.

"Well _I_ came for my King," he scolded them.

"My point was," Bofur interrupted, "that even if this Quest suddenly goes sideways, does it matter? I'd personally prefer to know now, in case I end up with a cold back in a tight spot when someone decides they're out."

"We ain't going anywhere," Dwalin growled. One by one, all the Company added their agreement. 

"So, we're agreed then?" Fíli asked them all seriously. "There will be no going back, no matter what Thorin is keeping from us? Loyal to the end?"

"With loyalty, honour, and willing hearts. We swore our allegiance," Balin nodded. "Our fate is fixed. Great Vairë wove our story a long time ago, we must only follow the path set for us with faith and continue on." 

"And the Hobbit?" Kíli asked.

"He's Thorin's," Glóin decided, as if that said everything. And it did.

"Yes!" Kíli hissed, and the dwarves all turned to see him and Fíli bumping fists with satisfied looks on their faces.

"We get to keep our new Auntie!" Fíli crowed.

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, most of these Hobbits are canonical, except Mistress Took. Her, I kinda pretended that the Old Took had a much younger sister. Who rules that clan with an iron fist, lols.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am told that I am a big meanie pants (or some words to that effect) for not bothering with a 'Blue Room' scene after last chapter. I may go back and add that as an interlude at some stage, but I really really wanted to get these blokes out of the Shire at long last. Er, sorry?

They prepared to leave Tuckburough when dawn was still a dim light on the horizon and the air was crisp and the birds just waking. The Hobbits had been very generous, even after a fine night of good dinner (and no less than three separate servings of supper too; one could swear they could hear the ponies moaning at the extra load) and warm lodgings, there had been a very substantial spread laid when they woke, and a packed 'second breakfast' loaded up for the ponies as well. While the Company had waited for Thorin and Bilbo to appear -still visiting at Took Hall, apparently- a few local lads had appeared with one of Bilbo's Uncles, all loaded with sacks which they had distributed amongst the Company's ponies. 

"Can't have too much when it comes to supplies," the Uncle who turned out to be Hildigrim told them. He'd shaken his head when Balin had attempted to pay him for the supplies, much like Isengar had when they had attempted to pay for the night's lodgings.

"Bilbo's family," he'd told them. "He's the only son of my deceased baby sister. And my other sisters would murder me dead if they found I had let him ride off without loading him down with extras," he grinned.

"It's very generous of you, though, to include us in your kindness," Balin had told the portly little character. Hildigrim shrugged.

"You're lucky," he said after a moment. "My nephew Fortinbras is Thain of the Shire, my brother Isumbras was Thain before him, my brother Isengrim was Thain before _him_ , and my father Thain before that. I've been helping take the census tally for, oh, sixty years now. I go around every few months with others in my family, and tally up all the new babies, and the deaths, marriages and feuds, keep an eye on who's doing well, and who could do with a bit of a helping hand. At last count, I believe there were six thousand and twenty-two of us Hobbits within the bounds of The Shire. And I've met most of 'em, if not all.

"The thing is," Hildigrim said thoughtfully. "is that of all those Hobbits, you've actually managed to find the one -and probably only- Hobbit that is most suitable for Quests and Adventures of Importance."

"How do you figure?" Kíli asked curiously. Hildigrim scratched thoughtfully at his chin for a moment, while one of the nearby lads snorted.

"He's Baggins _and_ Took," the lad said. "And not many of us can claim _that_."

"You watch yourself, lad," Hildigrim chuckled as the lads all snickered and scarpered. "I married a Baggins girl myself, Rosa. Beautiful girl. My son Adalgrim is the other Baggins Took, though he's far more Took than Baggins, and he's got children himself now, that he'd not leave behind. That always curbs our need to wander. Bilbo, I've always thought, managed to get the best qualities of both his families. He has that adventurous spirit all us Tooks have, the drive to go out and _see_ what's over that horizon. He'll find his courage and wit when most Hobbits would be running to hide. But he has that Baggins loyalty, that sense of honour that will keep him committed to whatever cause you have him on. He'll not give up, even when his whole being longs for his warm, safe Hobbit hole."

The older Hobbit sighed, then, stooping slightly continued.

"My generation of the family, we're slowly going. I miss my Rosa, and my Adalgrim has a family of his own, now. It's getting harder and harder to rise in the morning. Isembard and Isembold are both getting a bit dotty. Half my brothers and two of my sisters are gone already, and I know I ain't long for the Mother's forest. Donnamira and Mirabella will probably be the only ones who last a while, and Isengar won't even retire and let his son take over..." he trailed off and sighed.

"Soon, though, I worry there'll be nobody left to look out for Bilbo. It's why we've been attempting to wrangle him into a marriage, so we know he's taken care of. He's the only one, see, the only child of us generation of Tooks that isn't, _wasn't_ settled. I want to believe that dwarf of his will look out for him. Will he?"

Well, Balin thought. Wasn't expecting that.

"Thorin is... He is our kin. He is also our King. And he is above all other things, an honourable Dwarf. He will treat Bilbo as his precious One and Only. His greatest treasure. And as Thorin's kinfolk, it is our duty and delight to stand for him if he falls. On our honour, to you, kin of our kin, Bilbo Baggins will be cared for."

Hildigrim slumped, showing his years for a moment before he gathered himself and nodded. 

"The two of them will be along soon enough. Aunt Tilla's taking one last opportunity to interrogate the poor things. She don't believe one word of their tale, and neither do I. And by your expression, you're just as in the dark as the rest of us," the elderly Hobbit chuckled. "We won't interfere though. One thing we can count on. Baggins folk may be stuffy sods, but they _always_ marry for love. Always." With that, Hildigrim nodded and doffed his cap and set off out the stables.

"Well," Nori said thoughtfully. "That was interesting."

Balin hummed, stroking at his beard and wondering. Dwalin nudged him. "Stop worrying," his brother muttered at him. Balin sighed.

"Who are the four races?" Balin asked out loud.

"What'sat?"

"When we arrived and were introduced to young Bilbo. The two of them claimed that their marriage was presided by witnesses of four races. He mentioned Elves. I naturally assumed one of those races was Hobbits."

"But the Hobbits don't know anything about a marriage," Bombur mused.

"He said _representatives_ , not his whole bleedin' family. Could be that one was there, just been keeping their mouth shut," Nori pointed out.

"Still suspicious. One of those witnesses had to be a Dwarf, though, surely," Óin wondered.

"If so, who?" Fíli asked with a frown.

"I still want to know _when_ ," Kíli said with no small amount of frustration.

"Don't we all," Bofur muttered.

"Time to keep your teeth together," Glóin advised them, moving away from the doors where he had been keeping watch. They fell silent, fiddling with their mounts as Thorin arrived with a sleepy and disgruntled Hobbit curled under one arm. 

"Let's load up," Thorin called to them cheerfully, urging Bilbo over to his perpetually-cantankerous hinny, rider and mount matching each other in surly dispositions at present. Thorin, in contrast, looked positively chipper, even smug, as he bundled Bilbo into his cloak and hood.

"You can stop looking so pleased with yourself," Bilbo muttered sourly. "I'm still not entirely sure how I got myself into any of this."

"Impressive," Thorin chuffed happily at him, while he helped Bilbo onto his tiny transport, "That's what she said; Impressive. I'm _impressive_."

Bilbo glared sourly at him from his perch.

“She might not have meant you," Bilbo grumbled.

"She did," Thorin chuffed. "'Very impressive, Mr Dwarf,' that's what she said."

"Egotistical brute of a ..." Bilbo trailed off into incomprehensible mumbles.

"Should have got herself a Dwarf years ago, she said," Thorin continued happily, absently pushing Thistle's head away when the little thing tried to bite him and hooking the lead for the sweet little donkey onto Thistle's saddle. 

"Yes, alright, that's enough out of you," Bilbo groused. "Are we ready to go yet?"

Thorin snickered his way onto his pony, a jet black mount that he'd picked from their lot and almost gleefully named 'Minty' for some unknown reason. 

Dwarves did not usually name their ponies. 

Thorin had named them all.

"What's got you as cross as two sticks?" Bofur asked Bilbo.

"Problems with the family?" Óin asked.

"No problem," Thorin answered for him. "We just participated in a small Hobbit ritual to distinguish my worth as a husband. I did extremely well."

"Oh?" Balin asked, interested in what Hobbit ways his king had proved himself.

"We are absolutely not talking about this," Bilbo insisted when Thorin puffed up with pride and opened his mouth to speak. "Let's go, Sarn awaits."

The assembled dwarves watched while Bilbo clicked at his donkey and urged his hinny out, sniffing dismissively in Thorin's direction. Their King chuckled delightedly.

" _Impressive_ ," he snickered at Bilbo's back, as he followed him out into the lane. 

Bilbo pulled his hinny to a halt not half-way down the lane, twisting to look over the bemused Company behind him.

"Where is Gandalf?"

The Company blinked at him a moment before they looked about themselves.

"Not sure?" Ori answered for them finally, more question than answer. "Maybe he's still at the inn.... Though. Did anyone see him last night?"

"Not since we arrived," Bofur frowned.

"He'll catch up," Dwalin grunted. "He's his own wizard."

"I suppose," Bilbo said uncertainly as the others started to urge their ponies to walk again.

"Oh good, there you are," Gandalf greeted them cheerfully as they rode onto the main road.

" _Where_ have you been?" Bilbo demanded, glaring at the smirking wizard.

"Visiting, dear Bilbo," Grey one answered. "Your grandfather was a dear friend, as was your mother, and several of her siblings. It's always nice to stop by and have a nice cup of tea with old friends. Tooks are always such merry hosts."

Bilbo stared at him. All those Tooks had been right there in the inn with them last evening- and then being voyeuristic annoyances in the Smials after. The Wizard's disappearing act was becoming... suspicious. Half the time, Bilbo would not even realise he wasn't with them until reflecting on events later. He had not been like that the first time they had embarked on this quest.

Then again, he and Thorin were whole buckets of suspicious at the moment, so perhaps letting things lay as they were for the moment was in their best interest.

"Come on then," he sighed, urging his pony past the chuckling Wizard.

***

If they rode hard, they could make the Sarn Ford before dark, but as it was, Thorin was playing cautious this time around. It was unlikely that they would make it to Erebor before Durin's Day, and even if they could, again, without the unknowing assistance of the Goblins (little rat bastards had actually saved them many days of treacherous traipsing up and down the mountains) and the Eagles flying them far further in an hour than they could go on foot in over a week. Their whole journey last time had been a series of random bouts of luck, both good and bad. The chances of them making the same journey in exactly the same time frame were slim. The completely different route was guaranteed to be longer and more complex, and with the chances of making the gate by Durin's Day so slim, there was no way that Thorin was going to push them all too hard. They would conserve their strength until they were besieged by whatever bad luck would befall them this time.

And so the day had been spent much like the one before, the ponies moving at a good, ground-eating stride while the Dwarves all amused themselves with chatter. Thorin's increasingly obvious hints on how exactly he had proved himself to the Tooks as a husband had ended with a fair amount of teasing before it devolved into a recount of as many bawdy songs as the Dwarves could remember. As much as Bilbo would have liked to have maintained a fierce glare at Thorin for the rest of the day, there really was no grumping in the face of the hilariousness of a bunch of hairy Dwarves singing out of key about bare-faced lasses with fine beards in their broc.

They were actually not that far from the River Baranduin by the time Thorin called a halt for the day, no more than an hour or so, but even a ford as small as the Sarn, Thorin would prefer to cross during the day. Not that they could go much further once crossing, even if they did press on, since the sun was fading fast. One more night in the lands Bilbo called home would not hurt. 

Warmth coiled in Thorin's belly as he watched them settle in for the night in a little copse off the main road. There was something here that Thorin was sure had not been before they had arrived at Bilbo's, a sense of camaraderie and fellowship that seemed to have popped out of nowhere. Glóin, Bombur and Nori seemed well on their way to the firm but odd friendship they had taken up last time, the 'Fellowship of Reds' they'd been teasingly called by the rest of the Company many times. Bofur and Bifur were arguing about the best way to cook their dinner for the night, oblivious to the fact that Bilbo had got on and started dinner his own way while he watched them argue with great amusement. Ori had hijacked Óin for _some_ reason, and was asking what looked to be intently probing questions, the answers to which he jotted down with great enthusiasm. Dwalin was exasperatedly searching through Balin's pack while berating his brother for losing his pipe _again_ , and Dori seemed to be fussing about the lads, helping Fíli stitch a tear in his jerkin while Kíli delightedly rifled through Dori's pack of Interesting And Incredibly Useful Things with all the curiosity of eager youth. 

It wasn't that there hadn't been a bond between them before. They had all pledged allegiance to Thorin, and to the future of the Khazâd of the Blue Mountains, and that itself had forged something between them, something that could not be broken. They were comrades, if nothing else, and Dwarves honoured that connection. 

Brothership, however, had come with time on the first version of the quest. More time than it had in this version of events, in any case, by the way they appeared now. Thorin, admittedly, hadn't been paying the greatest of attention to that sort of things on their original journey, too distracted by his drive to succeed in their quest, and hiding all his inappropriate erections to the snarky little Hobbit in their midst, but he knew they had not bonded so firmly, so quickly the first time around. He'd wonder what had driven them to fall into such a state of companionship so easily _this_ time, but for now, it was so familiar and comfortable, all he could do was observe them all with the great depth of fondness he was feeling right now. 

Dinner, as it would, being prepared by a Hobbit with the very best of Hobbit supplies, was excellent, despite, or even because of their rough conditions. Feeding his Company was doing wonders for the integration of his Consort into their group. The mood was jovial after eating, and they all settled in for quiet jokes and happy chatting. Thorin, again, was loathe to join in, content to sit to the side and observe, especially the firelight flickering across Bilbo's features as he chatted with Ori and Bombur. It was not long, however, that his gaze fell to the fire itself, and his expression betrayed his introspection.

Bilbo was not the type of companion to let him brood for long, and soon moved to where his husband leaned against a convenient tree root. He made himself comfortable, using Thorin's folded legs as his own backrest, the quiet murmur of the Company a peaceful background.

"What are you thinking?" Bilbo asked quietly, reaching to brush back the hank of Thorin's hair that blocked his view of his husband's face. Thorin captured the hand and brought it to his lips, gently nuzzling the fingers he gripped, eyes on the fire.

"I was thinking of the first night of our original quest, after you had joined us. Do you remember?"

"I remember the lads 'welcoming' me to the fold with that bloody prank with my dinner. I remember learning not to mess with Dori while he's working his coif, too. I've never seen two lads scramble off so fast." He tugged on a convenient braid when Thorin snickered. "I remember wondering why you sat so far apart from us. I thought it was my presence that had driven you from the others, sitting with your back to us. I wondered if I should withdraw myself so that you could be with your people. I wondered that many times, those first few weeks."

Thorin pressed his lips against the fingers still in his possession in silent apology. 

"Was not you that I presented my back to, dear one. T'was the fire." He heaved himself close to Bilbo, gratefully wrapping an arm around the Hobbit when he snuggled into his side. 

"From the moment Smaug came to the mountain, I was... changed. I was the prime witness to his chaotic rampage, the damage he caused, and it... I dreamt of fire. For weeks after we fled, all I could smell was burnt flesh and blood, all I heard was the roar of flames and the desperate screams of our people. It was years before I could appreciate the smell of a well cooked meal again, or not feel a well of panic at the sight of smoke curling on the horizon. Years and years before I could feel peace working at a forge, hold my hammer without trembling. I never stopped dreaming of fire, though. No matter where my people roamed, what we endured, my nights were fuelled with fire." He trailed off for a moment, eyes watching the flickering flames with intensity for a while. 

"Sometimes I wonder if I wanted Erebor so much just to escape all that. Not dream of blazing ghosts and tragedy anymore. When we travelled, during those days, it was easy to let that fire fuel my rage and fierce conviction to our cause. And then night would fall, and we would light a fire, and I was left to my thoughts and memories and dread the coming sleep. And all I could see was fire.

"Days were for hope and dedication and focusing on our goal. Nights were for the spiralling desolation that we walked to flame. The end of hope for my people through cursed fire. I could not sit and watch the camp fire while my kin and company smiled and laughed, while all I could see was the flames that would take us all."

It wasn't a huge admission, but it felt good to relieve himself of another long-buried burden. He breathed deep a moment, content in the quiet moment between them, Bilbo's head contentedly resting on his chest.

"I don't see fire anymore," he said quietly. Bilbo's head tilted back, and his smile was fond and more than a little proud, and Thorin found it easy to return it. They sat silent and peaceful for a moment more, before Bilbo stirred.

"Thorin?"

"Hmmm?"

"I do. See fire. It's right there. Glóin lit it, remember? After I corralled those awful boys of yours into helping me collect the firewood and they stuck grass down the back of my shirt for my troubles. I think there's still some in -ack!"

If any of the Company was still surprised at the sight of Thorin rolling on top of his Hobbit, laughing freely while Bilbo begged for mercy from questing fingers, well, none of them showed it anything more than the hastily hidden fond smiles.

***

Bilbo absolutely would not let Thorin indulge in some discreet nookie surrounded by the rest of the snoring Company, but he would let Thorin snuggle with him (and partake of some very lovely kisses before sleeping), so Thorin woke content and properly wrapped around husband, the way a morning should start. 

It would have been lovely, if not for the three Men that strolled into camp as they began to stir.

At least, Thorin thought with a flash of pride, the Company was damn fast. Kíli came up with bow up and arrow primed, and Nori had a throwing knife embedded into the grass in front of the Men before they could step fully into the clearing. Dwalin and Bifur appeared with weapons raised behind them, flanking the intruders as they halted at the implied warning when Nori twirled another knife. 

"What do you want," Thorin asked without fuss, glaring as he shoved Bilbo back from where he was determined to emerge from behind Thorin's bulk.

"Thorin, they're _Rangers_ ," he hissed.

"We saw the fire," the one in the lead said, calm for a Man with a dozen good Dwarvish weapons pointed at him. "We thought you were Hobbits."

"Why on all of Arda would you think we were Hobbits?"

"You are currently in the lands of the Hobbits. Not many travel these lands but the ones who claim it as home. We had come to offer assistance if needed."

"Argus," Bilbo said, popping out from behind Thorin. "You are called Argus, yes?"

Bilbo hadn't even realised how tense all parties had been holding themselves until the Rangers visibly relaxed and in response, the Dwarrows all lowered their weapons.

"Master Baggins, isn't it?" the fair haired Ranger asked, his severe face melting to a small smile. "The scholar? How goes your latest book?"

"My latest- oh! Yes, my latest book. We spoke recently, didn't we. Yes, my last compilation of tales is finished, a house in Bree did several copies for me, one should be in their local hall of knowledge if you wanted to see your additions. My thanks, for your generosity with your stories."

"Any service we can render," the Ranger nodded gently.

"Yes, your people have always been very generous with mine," Bilbo said. 

"Master Baggins," Argus started slowly, gaze roaming the Dwarves still wary and still around them. "As I recall, you reside in Hobbiton- we spoke in the Green Dragon inn, did we not? What are you doing so far south, if you don't mind me asking."

"He does mind," Thorin interjected. "That is none of your-"

"I think it's time that we packed ready to leave," Bilbo chirped brightly. "We have some lovely buns and apples left from yesterday, so we can eat on the move. Thorin, would you mind packing me up while I chat with Argus for a few minutes?"

"I don't think-" Thorin began, but stopped when Bilbo drew him down by a fistful of braid.

"I know him," Bilbo hissed quietly, keeping his tone low enough to only carry between them. "He is no threat. Unless he becomes suspicious. Suspicious Rangers means we will be tailed until they are satisfied. Let me talk to him a moment. _Trust_ me," he insisted when Thorin looked obstinate. 

"Fine," Thorin gritted out when the Rangers started frowning in concern. "Pack it up!" he called to the rest of the Company, turning to attend to his and Bilbo's bedrolls.

"Thankyou, darling," Bilbo said warmly, scooting across the clearing and away from the others, the Rangers falling into step until they were out of casual hearing range of the Company.

"Where are you going, little hobbit," Argus asked almost immediately, dropping down to one knee before him, eyeing the Dwarves over his shoulder.

"We're meeting some of my husband's kin," Bilbo replied, carefully. It wasn't that he didn't trust the Rangers, they had done naught but good for his people for generations, and it was Aragorn of the Rangers who had saved his Frodo's life over and over on that bloody quest... but still. It was best if they kept as many details of their quest to themselves. Bilbo had not even told his Took kin much, just that he would be away for a fair while. No good blurting the lot to a stranger, now.

"Your husband?"

"The, er, overly protective Dwarf in the middle there," Bilbo smiled. "We have been visiting family in Tuckburough, that's why we're camped so low in the hills."

'And where exactly are these kin of the Dwarrows," the Ranger frowned.

"Bree," Bilbo told him quickly. "Staying the Southside of Bree. We've just been visiting my Took relatives, and thought the quicker route would be up through the Andrath, see, rather than backtracking up through Buckland. And, well," here he leaned in close. "I have some relatives in Hobbiton who don't exactly approve of my marriage, and have been quite vocal opposition. I thought to avoid an unpleasant confrontation by staying away awhile. My husband and his kin are mostly Smiths by trade, so he thought to seek some work with the Men until some other scandal in the Shire directs attention elsewhere."

The Rangers were silent a moment, scrutinising him closely.

"Can you trust them, Master Baggins?"

"My Dwarrows?" Bilbo asked, somewhat incredulously. "Of course. I know them all well, none of them would hurt me. I am quite safe."

"Hmmm," was Argus' only reply to that. "This is Tratha, and Halaron. We are part of the current border protection for your lands at the Sarn crossing. I can allocate two of us to escort you to Bree safely."

"Oh.. no. No, I couldn't possibly take you from your duty here. And we are many numbered, there are thirteen of these cantankerous Dwarrows, no bandit or Orc would stand a chance, really, not to mention the Wi..." he trailed off, face creasing into an irritable frown as he whipped around to survey their camp.

"Where has Gandalf got to _now_?" he cried in exasperation, throwing his hands into the air. Truthfully, he could not recall seeing the old bat since they had arrived at their little camp the previous evening. Bilbo could not even remember if the silly wizard had even stayed for dinner before disappearing _again_.

How did he keep missing that?

"Gandalf?" Argus asked. "You are travelling with the Grey Wizard?"

"We're _supposed_ to be travelling with that silly thing, but he keeps _vanishing_." Bilbo stomped his foot on the ground with irritation.

"Who keeps vanishing?" Gandalf asked behind him, and Bilbo shrieked as he jumped, whirling to glare at the old man leaning on his staff behind him.

" _How do you keep doing that?_ " he demanded, voice hitting a high pitch that he would later blush over. 

"Doing what, exactly, Mister Baggins?" Gandalf's expression was annoyingly baffled, and Bilbo stomped forward to shake a finger at him.

"You keep... _stealing away_ without any of us noticing, and yet, when we finally notice you aren't with us, you pop up, just as we are wondering where you've gotten to!"

"It is hardly my fault that you are often unobservant, now is it?" Gandalf admonished him. "And I simply went for a short look around, that is all. I am back in time to depart, am I not? And just in time to talk to these fine fellows, I think," he nodded, striding past Bilbo to nod to the bemused Men behind him.

"Halaron," Gandalf greeted, "How fare the Rangers these days?"

"Gandalf," the shorter Ranger nodded in greeting. "The Rangers do their duty, as always, even as the days darken. These are Argus and Tratha."

Gandalf acknowledged the other two solemnly.

"And what mean you, even as the days darken?" 

"Raids and 'incidents' have increased all over," Argus answered for the Men. "Trolls and Goblins and Orcs becoming more and more daring, travelling further into the lands of civilised beings. We do what we can."

"Of that I have no doubt," Gandalf murmured.

"The roads from Sarn to Bree are fairly free of such things, though," Halaron assured him.

"To Bree?" Gandalf asked, darting a look to Bilbo in amusement. "Good, good. I would hate for us to run into anything like that on the way to... Bree."

"These Dwarves..." Argus trailed off, question unasked but heavy with implication.

"Completely trustworthy," Gandalf assured them. "I am seeing them safely to their destination on the request of a father."

"We will see you to the Ford," Argus said. "And one of us can travel with you to Andrath."

"How delightful," Gandalf said, favouring him with an innocently benign smile. "How kind you are to an old man."

Halaron snorted loudly, though looked properly abashed as all gazes swivelled to him.

"I must insist," Bilbo said, taking pity on the Man and drawing Gandalf's stern stare away, "that whomever you send with us to the Andrath Valley, is properly qualified."

"Qualified?" Halaron asked, looking somewhat offended, and Argus began to chuckle ruefully.

"He has a slightly different concept of 'qualified' than you are thinking," Argus reassured through his mirth before turning back to Bilbo.

"Tratha here," he clapped the other Ranger on the shoulder, "at one point, spent time travelling East. He had many interactions with various Woodmen around the great forest Mirkwood, and some time amongst a tribe of Easterlings. And he is an _outstanding_ storyteller."

"Excellent!" Bilbo exclaimed, clapping his hands together in delight. "Very well qualified. And he'll cooperate?"

"I guarantee it," Argus nodded, attempting to swallow back his mirth.

"Jolly good!" Bilbo beamed. "Allow me to gather my Dwarrows and we can depart, yes?"

"Of course," Argus nodded, looking far too amused, and Bilbo bounced back to where the others were standing, packed, silent and glaring with matching crossed arms.

Bilbo was fairly certain that Dori's boots were on the wrong feet, and Dwalin's cloak was inside out, but it was sweet how concerned they seemed over his welfare.

"Look at you," he said, glaring at them mockingly. "You pack of grumps. Despite your most fervent wishes, the Men will not, in fact, melt under the scorch of your stare."

"What happened?" Thorin demanded, still glaring fiercely at the Rangers being questioned closely by Gandalf. There was a point where Bilbo had found that glare terrifying. Now it just made him want to kiss the pout out of his lips.

No point in denying himself. It was such a _tempting_ pout. He was terrible with self-denial.

"We have gained a kind escort for part of our journey to _Bree_ ," he said, grinning at Thorin's swift change from wrathful to eager with the application of a few kisses. "Where we will be visiting my husband's kin. And looking for Smithing work. An escort to keep us innocent travellers safe in darkening times, isn't that _nice_?" he emphasised, raising his eyebrow and staring pointedly around the group until they all nodded in acknowledgement.

"How far are we to be escorted to... _Bree_?" Balin asked.

"Just to the Andrath Valley," Bilbo replied with mock-disappointment, though he was fairly certain the Men were not listening a whit to their conversation. "From there, we will travel up the Road to Bree, while they return to border protection around the Sarn. Such dedicated Rangers to the protection of my people," he emphasised, tugging on one of Thorin's braids until he looked properly abashed.

"I wouldn't dare to harm them," he reassured Bilbo in an undertone. "I am aware of how deeply your people rely on their service."

"Andrath's doable," Glóin muttered. "We might have to move quick and quiet to head back down, instead of up, but doable. And the Rangers should remain none-the-wiser."

"Oh," Bilbo grinned delightedly. "The Ranger accompanying us has been bullied into telling me some of his tales along the way. I may have the start of another book!"

"All them great piles of books around your little home, then, they were all your own?" Bofur asked curiously.

"All... no. No, not by far, there are hundreds of books in my home! Only a few of those were written by me, though I have a lovely arrangement with the copy house in Bree, so there are one or two of my works floating around out there."

"Are you ready, Master Baggins?" Argus called from across the clearing, and they Company disbanded with a grumble to take to mount.

"Pity we aren't really headed to Bree," Thorin said quietly as they sorted themselves onto their ponies; the Rangers had retrieved horses and were waiting patiently a ways from them.

"Why, exactly?" Bilbo asked

"I haven't read any of your books. I am certain that they are truly wonderful. It is terribly remiss of me to have squandered the opportunity to have experienced reading one of your collections whilst in your home."

"Flatterer," Bilbo huffed, hiding a pleased smile as he urged Thistle to join the waiting Men.

"I speak only the truth as it rises in my heart," Thorin proclaimed extravagantly, though he trailed off into warm chuckles when Bilbo sent an overly sceptical look over his shoulder.

"Come along then!" Gandalf called from ahead. "Bree waits for no Dwarf!"

"Yay," Bilbo sighed.

****

The trip to the Sarn was quick, and mostly quiet, the two groups silent and avoiding each other somewhat, but once across the burbling fast paced water -and Bilbo had calmed his racing heart; the Sarn was not a deep ford, but it was still fast flowing water, and Hobbits were never particularly fond of water that held potentially fatal endings- Bilbo managed to engage the Men into telling him some of their tales, even coaxing Thorin into an amicable discussion with Halaron. Argus and Halaron rode with them until lunch time, in which Bilbo insisted they stop for, after their light breakfast, and further charmed the Rangers with his generous sharing of Hobbit-style rations, before they parted company with two of the Rangers and continued on with Tratha. 

From there, the next day or so to their destination was fairly easy, Bilbo and Gandalf keeping Tratha easily distracted with story telling and Gandalf's continued questioning over all the 'incidents' the Rangers had been dealing with in recent times. The rest of the Company even managed to be friendly enough- in that there was no blood spilt for the entirety of the trip.

The second day of travelling ended as they approached the three-way crossroads that would part them from their escort. Tratha would return along the Greenway, and the Company would ostensibly travel upward to Bree through the Andrath Valley. Tratha, however, refused to leave them immediately, and camped with them that night.

"You must be careful," he warned them as they ate their dinner. "Although they have not caused much trouble over recent years, the Barrow-Wights are still a concern. Do not dally as you travel the road, make all haste to Bree. If you must stop, halt your travel before dark and make sure to light many fires, stand guard in groups and let no one stray into the shadows. And if one of your party disappears in the night... do not follow. Accept them as lost and continue."

"You forget that they travel with a Wizard," Gandalf reassured the Man. "I can defend us from Barrow-Wights."

"I know," Tratha nodded. "It is the only reason I will return to Sarn from here, though I do not like to leave you."

"My people have encountered the things you call Barrow-Wights before. We are not as susceptible to their influence as other races. With the wizard, we will be fine," Thorin said, shifting Bilbo closer to his side. 

They had handled much together before, but those beings dwelling in the graves and bodies of long dead kings... Thorin was not entirely sure how he could defend his husband from something that would sink into his husband's mind to steal him away, and he absolutely could not just accept him as gone and keep riding.

It was a good thing that they would not actually be travelling close enough to the legendary Barrow-downs for it to matter, but the thought....

"I have a charm," Tratha told him quietly. "It is effective for casting off the touch of those such as the Barrow-Wights, and keeping the mind clear. I would have your Hobbit take it with him."

Thorin met the Man's concerned gaze. 

"And then you will be unprotected," he pointed out. Tratha shook his head.

"Rangers carry many protections, and we are versed in the spells that will repel the Wights. I would feel better, even with you travelling with the wizard, if you would take it. If it is as you say, and Dwarrows are not so afflicted by the Wights, then Master Baggins is the most vulnerable. Take the charm."

They were not even truly travelling to Bree. They would not be anywhere _near_ the Barrow-Downs. Why was it that this would make him feel better, then?

"I... would be grateful," he admitted and Tratha nodded, dipping into a pocket.

"Do I get a say in this?" Bilbo asked abruptly.

"No," Thorin said, clutching his Hobbit just a little bit tighter. 

Bilbo tilted his head up, catching Thorin's eye for a moment, gaze searching. A heartbeat and Bilbo was shaking his head, smiling softly.

"You great worrywart," he murmured.

"I tell you what, Tratha," Bilbo turned back to the Man. "If you would take a letter to be delivered to the Great Took Smials in Tuckburough, and tell me another of your wonderful stories, and if you agree to take a satchel of my honey cakes and special smoked sausage- then I will take the charm."

"Hmmm," Tratha mused, scratching at his chin. "How about, I take your letter, and tell you _two_ stories, and you take the charm."

Bilbo crossed his arms across his chest and glared.

"Master Baggins-"

" _Master Ranger._ "

"May I give you some advice, friend?" Thorin asked, stretching his legs out in front of him. "When dealing with Hobbits, it's best if you just do as you're told, eat whatever they hand you, and thank them politely for their fussing. _Always_ thank them politely. Things go about a thousand times smoother when you do."

"Is that right?" Tratha chuckled.

"I find that to be excellent advice," Gandalf agreed, smiling calmly when Bilbo glared. "Oh, a wonderful dinner, tonight, Bilbo my dear, simply wonderful. Thank you so much for preparing it."

"You are welcome," Bilbo accepted darkly, still glaring.

"Yes, wonderful, thank you dearest," Thorin chimed in blandly, bringing Bilbo's fingers to his lips, eyes sparkling with repressed mirth.

"It was no problem," Bilbo hissed, narrow eyed. The rest of the Company chimed in with cheerful thanks, and Bilbo responded to each and every one of them, glaring and pouting at them all. By the time they were all done, most of them were snickering and Tratha was outright laughing, swaying where he sat.

"It was, it was a lovely meal. There truly is no being better skilled in the culinary arts than Hobbits," he chuckled. "I will deliver whatever letters you like, tell you any story in my possession, and take any supplies you wish me to have. As long as you take the charm. Agreed?"

"Fine," Bilbo agreed, sighing in resignation. For that little bit of teasing, he was packing some sweets he'd hoarded, too, _and_ extra sausage. See how the Ranger liked _that_. Ha!

"Here, little Hobbit," Tratha said, holding out his 'charm'. 

It was so... simple, for a magical doodad that would save him from terrifying mind-controlling wraiths in the opposite direction to their travels. Just a plain woven leather band, with a hint of some sort of dull wire running through it.

"This, is a protective charm?" he asked sceptically. It was brown and faded and would need to be looped over itself to fit his Hobbity wrist; it was clearly made to fit much larger beings than himself.

"It might not look like much, but it has the ability to protect the mind from outside influence. I have used it before myself, and with others under my protection. It will do the job," Tratha assured him. "It's even supposed to be Dwarvish, if that helps."

"Dwarvish?" Thorin asked, perking up, leaning to see the, well, bracelet better. "It has the look," he admitted. "Óin?"

The elder was already leaning over Thorin's shoulder for a good look.

"Aye, it's a six strand braid, but the wire invokes a seventh. The placement is reminiscent of Blacklock charms for warding, but that sort of twisted copper blend in the wire is more common in Ironfists. It has the weight of a Dwarvish token, certainly, but there is something... odd about it. What sort of leather is that?" he asked the Ranger.

"I have no idea," Tratha answered, shrugging. "It was gifted to me by a Woman in my travels when I was a lad. I have used it to protect travellers against the Wights, and once for myself from a being that was seducing men into drowning themselves. It has always been effective. You now know all that I know." 

"Gandalf?' Thorin asked, passing the charm across. The wizard took it gingerly, running it through his fingers and whispering a moment.

"It is not evil," he finally admitted. "And made for protection. It could be Dwarvish, but... I am uncertain. It is indeed, odd," he finished, handing it back to Bilbo. 

Bilbo looked to Tratha once more.

"How will I return it to you?"

Tratha was silent a long while, the fire cracking and popping the only sound amongst the group.

"I think you had better keep it. I think you'll need it."

Bilbo looked to Thorin, who nodded, and Bilbo looped it and slipped it on.

"Ow," he said, blinking at the stars overhead and flexing his jaw. His ears were still ringing from the great pop they had made.

"Bilbo!" Thorin sounded so relieved, popping into view above him, and when did he lie down?

"What?" he asked, shifting to roll. His head thumped, though, and his belly gave a great heave in response, so he stilled.

"He's awake!" Thorin called, and honestly, why was he yelling, they were all right there. 

Where was everyone?

"Did we move?" he asked, puzzled.

"Bilbo, lad, how are you feeling?" Gandalf asked, leaning over him. 

"It made my ears pop," Bilbo answered, somewhat dazed. "Did I lay down?"

"Did you lay... Bilbo, you passed out," Thorin fussed, clutching at his hand while Óin seemed to magically appear out of nowhere and start muttering over him with Gandalf.

"I did?" he wondered, blinking. His head was clearing already, and he finally noticed the sombre group a ways apart from them, and his other hand being shared by Fíli and Kíli.

"Help me up," he told Thorin, struggling to rise. Thorin looked somewhat doubtful, exchanging glances with Óin and Gandalf before shrugging and helping Bilbo to sit against him.

Upright, he shook off the last bit of fog off his vision, breathing in the night air a moment.

"I passed out?" he asked, frowning.

"You just, crumpled," Kíli said quietly. "And you wouldn't wake up, not even for Gandalf and his hocus pocus."

"Tratha said you probably wouldn't respond to mind magics while you had the charm on," Fíli continued. "But we couldn't get it off!"

"What?" Bilbo looked down at his wrist. Sure enough, the band was still there. It wasn't tight, or locked into place, or fused to his skin. It was just... there. He was fairly certain he could take it off, just for right now, he really, really didn't want to.

"I feel fine," he assured them, looking up. "It just felt like my ears made a loud popping noise. And then it cleared and I was awake. That's all."

"You were out for over an hour," Thorin said quietly.

"An _hour?_ "

"We couldn't wake you up."

"Oh."

Looking around, he finally noticed Tratha was sat apart from the others, Dwalin nearby with an axe in hand and staring unblinking at the Man.

"Dwalin, stop that," he sighed in exasperation. "Leave the poor Man alone. Tratha, has this ever happened with anybody else?"

"No, never," Tratha said, shaking his head. "I am so sorry, Master Baggins, this has never happened before. I have used this charm with Hobbits before; I helped a Took up to Bree to sell Grain lots just three seasons ago! I do not understand what has happened."

"It's not your fault, Tratha. Please dispense with that Master Baggins nonsense. I tend to have... unexpected things happen to, or around me."

"Can you take it off?" Thorin asked.

"I could," Bilbo answered. "But I really think I ought not to."

Again, the Company was silent, all staring and considering.

"I can find nothing malicious," Gandalf mused. "If you feel it must stay on, then perhaps it must. For now, at least."

Bilbo's gaze dropped back to the leather around his wrist. For a bare second, he was absolutely _furious_ , and then smugly triumphant, and then it passed as if it had never even happened, and his gaze slid away from the band as he promptly forgot what he had felt.

"It's late," he suddenly said, eyes snapping to the two boys beside him. "You lads should absolutely be sleeping, we are travelling tomorrow! Come on, the lot of you, I'm not listening to thirteen cantankerous gits all morning, Dwarrows are nasty when they're sleep deprived."

"We are not!" Fíli protested, and Bilbo drew himself up and pointed imperiously at their bedrolls with unrelenting glare until they whined and stood.

"And braid your hair back before sleeping, Kíli, it was an absolute disaster this morning, you don't want me to have to detangle it again, do you?"

"No Auntie," Kíli sighed, fetching his comb and letting Fíli steer him to sit.

"Bifur, I don't suppose there is any hot water in that kettle? I could sorely do with a cup of tea. Who is on first watch?"

"Me," grunted Dwalin, glaring again at Tratha.

"I don't think so, you've done so every night travelling so far," Bilbo refused, scanning the group.

"Quite right," Balin said with a nod. "Dori and I will take first watch. If that is all right, Dori?"

"Excellent idea, I'll make us a cup with Bilbo's, extra leaves if you will, Bifur," Dori said, collecting some of the squat tin cups they carried for such a thing.

"Dwalin, leave the lad _alone_ ," Balin admonished, flapping him away from the poor Man still sitting dejectedly away from the others. "Sleep the other side of Master Baggins, make sure he doesn't wander in the night."

"Why am I back to Master Baggins?" Bilbo huffed. "And why would I go _wandering_?"

"Bilbo, then," Dori said absently, bustling over with a cup while Balin urged the others into sleep preparations. "Tratha, would you put your roll with my brothers’ for the night? If you place yours just... yes, good lad, Ori, then I'll take that spot, oh, yes, thank you Nori!"

"Glóin, I'll be waking you and Bombur for next shift, and Bofur, you and Bifur will take third. Acceptable?"

The others all murmured their agreement, settling in, and Bilbo tugged Thorin into settling in beside him, watching in amusement as Dwalin fussed over Balin being on watch.

"It's that thing, isn't it?" Thorin suddenly whispered. "I knew you brought it with you. I had been telling myself that you hadn't, but I knew that you had. That was it, wasn't it? Why you reacted, so?"

"What are you talking about," Bilbo whispered back in confusion.

"The Ring. It was the Ring."

Bilbo stared at his husband, frown deepening.

"What ring?"

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was slightly disappointed the Tom Bombadil and the Barrow-Wights was never a part of Peter Jackson's LOTR. For those who are mainly movie-canoners, the Barrow Downs are an ancient burial ground of kings of old. A respected place until the Witch-King of Angmar sent creatures to inhabit the graves -and bodies- there. They slip into people's minds and take them into the Cairns and, well, murder them. Frodo and the other ittle hobbits are taken and imprisoned, and Frodo almost killed before he manages to cut of the Wight's hand and call for Tom Bombadil to rescue him. 
> 
> Supposedly, the only way to stay safe from a Barrow-Wight is magic, or light, but I figure, Rangers are kick arse. They'd have their own little spells and tricks. So Tratha and the others are totes leet, yo.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sigh* In truth, this has been written a while. It's been back from dear Beta-Beth for a few weeks. She's sending me emails wondering when I'm posting the silly thing. I still hate it. But you can have it, because I'm sick of looking at it. I want to get stuck into Woods again, lols.
> 
> So, er... sorry for the wait? And also, sorry if it isn't worth the wait.

_Previously: "What ring?"_

For a long moment, Thorin almost didn't understand Bilbo's response. Was he joking? Deflecting? Pretending to be confused to distract him?

Had Thorin gone mad again? Was he dreaming?

And then reality set in, the obvious confusion on Bilbo's face... _What ring?_

Cold icy fear condensed in Thorin's chest. 

"What do you mean, what ring?" he asked around a dry throat, panic clawing from within.

"Are you all right, Thorin?" Bilbo pressed a hand to his head, checking for fever, his forehead creasing even deeper in his puzzlement, and Thorin grabbed him, hauling them both to their feet.

Nobody was actually asleep yet, still settling, so they all jumped when Thorin rose so suddenly, but he waved them off, pulling Bilbo farther away.

"What do you _mean_ , what ring?" he repeated, shaking Bilbo in his grasp.

Somewhere inside his mind, he recognised that this position was terrifyingly reminiscent of the day he had almost killed Bilbo, and that most of their party were tense with concern at the sight, but he couldn't stop himself from the looming and shaking, he was too frightened. 

"Thorin, what? A ring, what ri...."

Bilbo's eyes glazed, expression lost for a moment before he frowned.

"Oh, that Ring..."

All at once, Bilbo's expression held all the terror flowing through Thorin and he clutched at Thorin's arms desperately.

"How could I forget that? Thorin, how could I... oh no. I had hoped... oh no."

"What, what is it?" Thorin demanded, shaking him again, before reeling him in, clutching Bilbo to him.

"I'm going mad again. It sent me mad the first time, and now it's sending me mad again. I'd hoped I had more time, it took so long last time, I had hoped. Oh no, Thorin."

"Stop, calm down," Thorin said, vaguely aware of how hysterical he sounded himself as he said that. He tugged them another dozen paces from the others; now was really not a good time to be overheard.

"I'm going mad," Bilbo moaned miserably into his chest.

"But you remember, now, the Ring?" 

"Yes."

"And us, and the two journeys and everything from before, and where we are now..."

"Yes, I remember, I just... I don't know what happened, Thorin. For a moment there, I was just happy, you and I, here, the Company. Travelling again. I stopped worrying for a while, and I...

"I did bring it with me," he looked up at Thorin, face twisted with a riot of emotions. "I know you didn't want me to tell you if I had or not, that you were going to pretend that I had left it behind, but I _couldn't_. It _does_ things to people, I couldn't be sure of the consequences. Gollum found Frodo, last time, he found him, and I was never sure if that was by chance, or if he was drawn to it. He may not have known it was me this time, but that doesn't necessarily mean that he wouldn't go there, that he wouldn't find it, and hurt whoever was near it. I _couldn't_ -"

"Shhhh," Thorin soothed, running his hands over Bilbo, more for his own comfort than Bilbo's. "We will figure this out."

"How?" Bilbo demanded, half hysterical. "How? We don't know _anything_ , we've been clueless since this all began, how are we-"

"We. Will. Work. This. Out." Thorin insisted.

"I don't want to go mad, I don't want to be lost again, Thorin, I don't."

"I know," Thorin let out a breath, burying his face into Bilbo's hair, letting himself shake just a moment more before trying to gather his wits.

"I think I understand what you went through, a bit better, now," he whispered. "The person you love, there but not. The prospect of that, Bilbo, of having you here, but not _you_... that is terrifying. I cannot imagine how you coped when I made you endure that.

"I came back from that terrible place in my own mind, I clawed my way back to sanity. I know that you have the strength to keep yourself, I know you can."

"I... I-"

"We will endure this, as we endure all things; we will do so together. You are my strength, and I am yours. We will carry on until we understand why we are here, what our purpose is. We will not fail, no matter what we encounter, I have to believe that." 

"I- I'm terrified, Thorin."

"I am, also," Thorin admitted at a near whisper. "We cannot allow that to shape us, though. We will weaken if we do, and we cannot afford that. I know you have had to be strong for so long now, but can you keep going, love? Will you be strong just a bit more?"

Bilbo nodded into his chest and Thorin thought.

"When do you think that you forgot the Ring? Was it when you put on the charm?"

"I... think so?" Bilbo shrugged after musing for a moment. "Thinking about it makes my head fuzzy. But, I think that is what happened."

"All right," Thorin huffed out another harsh breath and brought Bilbo's wrist up for inspection. "What do you think will happen if you take it off?"

"I," Bilbo stared at the charm for a moment, his brow creased. "It's almost as if I am only able to... remember? Think of? I'm uncertain what it is I mean. It's as if only one may exist for me at a time, the Ring or the charm. And yet I still do not wish to take it off."

Thorin looked closely at the innocuous wristband. It looked like... a simple wristband. But then, the One Ring was a plain gold band, not pretty or grand by any stretch of imagination.

At least not by Dwarvish standards.

The leather of the band was not miraculously melded together, and it was still looped over to fit Bilbo's wrist, but it did not look ill-fitted. In fact, the more Thorin looked at it, the more it looked made to fit doubled over, on such a wrist as his. A perfect fit, almost. It was still worn, a little ragged at the edges, the wire dull and battered. The few tiny runes scattered here and there along were almost worn from the leather, and all harmless. 

"If somebody tried to take the charm from you, how would you react?"

"Er, confused?" Bilbo frowned. "It's not exactly the most valuable looking thing. I'd probably give it to whomever was so desperate for it to make them go away."

"And the Ring? If somebody tried to take the Ring?"

"Defend it," Bilbo answered straight away.

"What if it was somebody from the Company that wanted it? If it were Kíli? Or Bofur? Or me? What if we were prepared to kill you to take it?"

"I- that's... I'd be horrified," Bilbo croaked.

"Why?" Thorin pressed.

"Because they, you, you'd be _influenced_ by the thing, and it would put me in the position of, of potentially _hurting_ you, to keep you safe."

"You'd hurt us to keep it for yourself?" Thorin tried, stopping himself from flinching at the cruel phrasing.

"No! Not to keep it, to keep you safe!"

"But you hurt Frodo, didn't you? You tried to hurt your lad to keep it."

"I, I-" Bilbo's eyes had widened in horror, tense and ready to bolt. "No, I- why are you saying this? I did, I did _before_ , but I wouldn't, not now, I wouldn't, I swear, Thorin-"

"I know."

"Why? I don't- Why?"

"I'm sorry," Thorin rocked him as Bilbo abruptly dissolved into tears. "I had to know. You wouldn't do those things... but if you were warped by the Ring, you would. I'm sorry, I had to check, I had to see if it had you, I'm sorry."

" _Thorin_ -"

"I don't know what I'm doing, Bilbo. I know we aren't here for Erebor, I know it all the way through my very being. It's true," he insisted when Bilbo shook his head, face still buried in his chest. "We aren't, I'm sure of it. I think my only reason for being here, is so you can deal with that thing. I know it must be you that carries it. All I can think is that I am here to help you. Protect you. Watch you. Keep you _yourself_. I'm not even the most worthy of creatures, to be chosen for the task, and I don't entirely understand how to help, but I have to _try_ -"

"I cannot do this without you," Bilbo sobbed. "Thorin, I _cannot do this_. I don't know how."

" _We_ can do this," Thorin whispered into his hair. "You are so amazing, the greatest creature I have ever known, but you are not alone. I will help you all I can, love."

"That's it!" Dori suddenly yelled from the fire. "I've had enough. _What_ is going on?"

Thorin started, suddenly aware of his surroundings. Over Bilbo's head he levelled a glare at the gawkers, twelve Dwarrows, a wizard and a Man all hovering, quite a few of them very obviously creeping forward in an attempt to eavesdrop. Bilbo, however, seemed incapable of raising his head from Thorin's chest, too preoccupied with weeping seventy-nine years of grief into Thorin's jerkin to care overmuch of what the others thought.

"This is a private matter," Thorin stated loudly. "Leave us be."

"I don't bloody _think_ so," Dwalin growled back, stomping over with a blanket, draping it over the shoulders of the little hobbit. "What did you do to him?" he demanded, punching Thorin in the shoulder.

Fíli and Kíli appeared at his elbow, and with quiet whispers, managed to coax Bilbo up from his chest and over to the fire, Balin and Dori and Tratha fussing over him with tea and back rubbing and gently wiping his face. Bilbo calmed some, leaning into the boys and hiccupping around mouthfuls of tea, shaking his head at whatever soft questions were being levelled at him.

Thorin scrubbed a hand over his face as Glóin and Gandalf converged on him, already demanding answers, and he, too, could do no more than shake his head in response, heart pounding too loud in his ears for him to make out their questions anyway. 

His knees weakened and he swayed, hand shooting out to grip Dwalin for a moment, unwilling to collapse from the sudden onset of bone-deep exhaustion, fear-fuelled adrenalin rush draining away as reality intruded. Dwalin gripped him back and Glóin steadied him from the other side, Óin there with another blanket, ushering him to sit next to Bilbo. He collapsed at his husband's feet, missing the log that his love sat on and thumped down onto the ground, leaning to rest his forehead on Bilbo's knee.

Bilbo slumped over Thorin's head, no doubt just as exhausted from his bout of crying, breath occasionally hitching now and then in the aftermath of his tears. 

"What now?" he whispered into Thorin's hair, winding his fingers into Thorin's braids. Thorin shrugged his shoulders inelegantly, rubbing his face into Bilbo's knees.

"Keep going," he mumbled finally, aware of their silent hovering companions.

"Does that need to come off?" Balin asked suddenly, and Thorin raised his head to look at his friend, following his meaningful nod to the leather around Bilbo's wrist.

"No," Thorin sighed. "It... no. I think we're fine."

"You don't seem fine," Balin probed, and Thorin met his eyes once more.

"I can't tell you," Thorin stated, cutting straight through to what he knew Balin was asking. "Not yet. Please do not ask me anything you know I shall not answer." 

He let his head fall back onto Bilbo's knee, cowardly retreating from his cousin's penetrating gaze. His eyes fell shut again as he ignored the various whispers breaking out around him, concentrating on Bilbo. 

"We'll have to, soon, won't we?" Bilbo whispered. "We'll have to tell them. They deserve to know."

"Yes," Thorin mumbled back. "But not yet. We have to see the Witch first."

"'m Tired. Can we sleep?"

"Yes," was all Thorin could answer, tugging Bilbo down onto his lap and rearranging the blankets around them, burying his face into Bilbo's hair with a sigh, eyelids determined to remain closed.

There was murmuring about him, and at least two of his Company were clamouring for answers, but it was Gandalf, oddly enough, who bustled everyone away. Thorin didn't really care, though, stress catching up with him in a long wave of exhaustion.

He slept.

***

Waking was... uncomfortable. He'd been somewhat younger when last he'd had the habit of sleeping while sitting; his nephews being clingy children when they were little. His back had ached with it _then_ , so now? Why hello, agonising pain. Long time no see.

He bit back a groan, twisting slightly to relieve the pressure on his poor back, slumped as he was at an odd angle, and with Bilbo sprawled across of him. He almost yelled when on opening his eyes, he came face to face with the Man in their Company.

" _What_ -" He hissed out on a harsh exhale, forcing his body to relax under Bilbo, lest he wake the other. Tratha leaned back somewhat, putting some little space between them, though he did not go far, nor did he stop his intent inspection of Dwarf and Hobbit.

"I heard you last night," he told Thorin, voice somewhat distant as he studied them, a small frown playing around is face. "You said, 'we have to see the witch first'."

Thorin said nothing, keeping his face as bland even as a trickle of worry ran down his spine. Picking a fight with a Ranger would be catastrophic. Not that Thorin felt unable to win such a battle. Compromised he might be, with the pain of his back and the worry for his husband, but the last hair would fall from Durin’s beard before Thorin would be bested in a fight with just one man – Ranger or not. No, Thorin was certain he could take Tratha. But now was neither the time nor the place. He did not need whole clans of roving warriors chasing him across all of Eriador.

"We are not ignorant, Thorin, son of Thráin. We know who you are, know your story. You may be claiming to be naught but a Smith now, and truly, we know that is truly what you have been, for many years. I believe there is more to this journey though, is there not?"

Again, Thorin said nothing, heart thudding so loudly he was sure the Man would be able to hear. One Man, one Man was no threat, they could take him easily, but damn it all, he had come to like the fellow. And Bilbo would _murder_ him.

"I know that you will not tell me what exactly is going on, when I know that you have not told your kin, even, all your secrets. I will leave, as planned, after your husband gives me his letters to send."

Thorin stretched a little, shifting Bilbo higher. Truly, he had nothing he could say to Tratha to satisfy him. Hearing he was indeed moving on was a relief, yet there was... something. He eyed the other with some small amount of scepticism.

"We Rangers know what it is to be homeless, Master Dwarf. Centuries of wandering, and our duties, we have a refined sense of instinct, now. Smoke curling on the horizon from a campfire several days ago, brought a distinct sense of anticipation with it, of _change_. And we found you."

Bilbo shifted against him, and he looked down to see his Hobbit regarding the Man solemnly.

"I will go," Tratha said, nodding to Bilbo. "As planned, but I do not want you to go thinking that I do not see you as anything more than an innocent party of travellers. That I will not worry for you. Or that this is the last you shall see of me."

He didn't wait for a response for that, striding away to help Bifur stoke the fire back up, seeming to have no trouble holding a murmured conversation over the teapot with the non-Westron speaking Dwarf.

Bilbo rolled his head up into Thorin's neck with a sigh.

"I just want to run and run and run," he said quietly. "I want to run away from all of this, just you and I, running far away where none of this can touch us. I want to go home. I want this to never have happened. I want..."

"I know," Thorin soothed, eyes sinking closed again.

"At the same time, I cannot fathom walking away. I _need_ to do this, I need to try and fix whatever it is that needs fixing. It feels as if, as if... _time_ is snapping at our heels, though, like we cannot move fast enough to make any of our plans work, that we don't even have half a plan to _begin with_ , and I have no idea how we-"

"Bilbo," Thorin cut into his quickly turning panicked whispers. He leant forward when Bilbo looked at him, pressing their foreheads together. 

He struggled, a thousand words drifting through his head, none enough to make anything about their situation easier to bear.

"Sorry," Bilbo whispered, seeing his trouble, tilting his chin slightly to rub his nose against Thorin's. 

"There will be time to catch our breath soon, I promise," Thorin murmured, wriggling a little and wincing as his back reminded him sharply of his position. "We will find the Witch, see if she is as much help as you say she may be. And then, I promise, we will pause for breath."

Bilbo sighed, nodding, before sliding in closer for a slow, gentle kiss.

"How do you feel?" Thorin asked tentatively. Bilbo huffed, shoulders rolling in an irritated shrug.

"Tired, frustrated, hungry, sad, teary, frightened, weary, wary, hungry, itchy, despondent, hungry-"

"Your snappy, ridiculous verbosity continues to astound me," Thorin chuckled, tension he had not even noticed mounting in himself draining away. Bilbo was, and always would be, Bilbo. "Not entirely what I meant, but as hungry was mentioned several times..."

"Yes, do skip the worrying until after feeding the Hobbit," Bilbo sniffed, gently miming a cuff upside the head. "I cannot say I do not feel somewhat different today than I did yesterday, but I don't feel... _bad_. I don't think?" His forehead crinkled in a most becoming way, and Thorin felt a genuine grin curl across his face at the sight.

"I had perhaps better check you over," Thorin nodded seriously. "Give you a thorough examination to make sure you are indeed yourself. A _very_ thorough examination. I will probably need to remove clothing."

"Oh, you-!" Bilbo swatted at him in mock exasperation, delighting in the way the skin around Thorin's eyes crinkled while his eyes lit with amusement.

"Food," Thorin instructed, carefully shifting Bilbo off his lap and groaning as he straightened. The rest of the Company were stirring, mostly in response to Bofur's cheerful whistling and banging of breakfast pots. He grunted again when he stood, his back making several sharp cracking sounds as he straightened. Tratha made a noise from the fire in response, his face twisted into sympathy, pouring hot water from the kettle into a mug, swishing the cup for a moment and topping it with cool water from his skin before bringing it to Thorin.

"Óin left this out for you last night," he said, handing over the cup, and Thorin winced at the thought of downing the malodorous brew.

"Don't even think about it," Bilbo warned, when he eyed the ground beside him speculatively. Tratha smirked knowingly, and with a glare that he was aware was more than a little pouty, he swallowed the hot swill down under his Husband's watchful gaze. 

"Disgusting," he said flatly, frowning deeply when he felt his body relax a fair bit. "Ohh, sneaky," he swore.

"What?" Bilbo asked, puzzled.

"He slipped some of the good stuff in there," Thorin said, shaking the cup at Bilbo. "They _know_ it makes me talkative. Bastards. No patience. Keep me away from Balin, Bilbo."

Bilbo looked at him blankly for a moment, and the cup, and then his face darkened. He straightened, body a picture of righteous fury, and made to stalk over to the Gróin and Fundin cousins, but Thorin grasped him around the waist, pulling him close.

"It also makes me randy as anything," he purred, nipping at Bilbo's chin, ignoring Tratha's sputtered chortles. Bilbo glared at the Man over his shoulder.

"Like you needed help with that," he sighed. "Did it at least make your back feel better?" he asked, rubbing at his forehead.

Thorin hummed something that was vaguely affirmative, and Bilbo took a hold of his chin and met his gaze firmly.

"Thorin, if you flap off at the mouth over things better not discussed, I'll not let you have me for at least a month, understood?"

Thorin stared mournfully at Bilbo, sighing deeply. No matter what happened before he could work this crap out of his system, he was going to get into trouble.

Life -no matter how many attempts you had at it- was not fair.

"Yes, dear," he sighed, ignoring Tratha's guffaws.

"Óin!" Bilbo bellowed, "We are going to have _words!_ "

***

Two days later, Bilbo was ready to murder a Dwarf. He didn't really care which, at this stage, any would make him feel better, he was sure.

Óin had vehemently denied dosing Thorin with the particular pain reliever he did for the sole purpose of interrogating his cousin, and at least had the sense to keep the dose quite low, so Thorin had been scowling and head-achy not an hour later, but still. That hadn't stopped the lot of them suddenly asking not-so-subtle questions almost constantly. It seemed that he and Thorin had not been as sneaky as they had thought, and it was becoming increasingly apparent that the entire Company thought everything told to them so far a complete crock of crap.

At least they had all had the sense to wait for Tratha to leave them, and they'd spent a few hours flying the opposite direction down the Greenway as soon as his horse had disappeared over the horizon.

That did not make the last two days much easier to bear.

"I finally named my donkey," he moodily told Thorin, the two of them riding a fair way ahead of the others. Their pace had increased the last two days. The trip to the crossing at Tharbad was likely to take a week, normally, if they pushed it, they may make it in five days.

Oh?" Thorin asked, twisting to take in the placid little beast following Bilbo's hinny. 

"Mmm, I named her Patience. Because then I can still say your Company has not stolen _all_ patience from me."

"Not until they steal your donkey," Thorin chuckled.

"Likely," Bilbo mused morosely.

"Why has it taken you so long to name it, anyway? You named that ill-tempered beast you call a mount long before this."

"Well, it was easy to name him, Thistle fits him perfectly. Pretty but prickly. Patience is so quiet I barely notice she's there half the time."

Thorin never got past an inhale to respond before his nephews called from behind, and his face broke into a reflexive scowl. They had better not be interrupting the first moment of peace he had had with Bilbo all day to ask their very not-subtle questions over which he was growing extremely impatient.

Something of his feelings must have shown on his face when he twisted at their call, since they seemed suitably cowed once they had approached.

"It'll be getting dark, soon," Kíli said. 

"Should we scout ahead for a place to halt? Fíli finished innocently. 

"Yes, fine, go," Thorin growled, gesturing them off with a shooing motion, scowl in place for the entirety of the interaction.

"You're putting me in a very uncomfortable position," Bilbo sulked, huffing. Thorin raised one enquiring eyebrow. "I thought _I_ had taken the position of irritable and grumpy on this trip. Aren't you supposed to be the bouncy happy one this time?"

Thorin sputtered, pony faltering at his slack grip.

"I'm supposed to be _what_ now?"

"Well, last time we went off on this insane jaunt, you were the moody brooding one, and I was the young, breath of fresh new life that brought an air of hope and this thing called a 'smile' to your expedition. This time, you are the positive, inspiring leader, guiding us all towards an epic victory and a bright future, while I am the pessimistic voice of reality worn down by the woes of life, permanent scowl in place. If you are intending to regress, I'll be stuck comforting the boys again because Uncle is a grizzly old bear. Which isn't fair, you've had your turn at grumpy, it's my go now."

He ended his little spiel with a vigorous wave of arm and pointed finger, and Thorin stared, open mouthed and silent for several moments as they rode, quite unable to come up with some sort of rational rebuttal.

"Your mind scares me, sometimes," he settled with, shaking his head. "When have I ever been _bouncy?_ "

Oh, the naughty smirk Bilbo was levelling at him promised a nice little flirt 'n snark, but just as he was settling his expression into an appropriate leer and steering Minty in closer to perhaps sneak in a touch or two, the boys came back, riding a tad fast and upset to be nothing.

"Thorin, we see fires! Lots of them!"

"What?" he barked, pulling his pony to a halt, the others spurring forward to join them.

"Over the rise, all across Minhiriath, smoke curling from dozens of places," Fíli told him, jittering with tension in his saddle. The lot of them as one moved forward, heading to the top of the slope the off the path, all of them dismounting and moving quickly on foot to the top.

From their position, they could see a fair way across the lands most still called Minhiriath, the abandoned lands, the lands that no civilised being wanted. 

No camps could be seen from where they were; the fires all seemed to have been made within the sparse copses littered across what was once a thickly forested region. 

"It can't be Orcs," Balin muttered. "They couldn't live in such a barren stretch like this, there isn't enough shelter from the sun."

"Too widespread for Bandits," Glóin added. "And nothing down here for them to be banditing."

"Unless they've been where we're going," Nori said ominously.

"What, raiding Tharbad? It's not exactly the thriving merchant city it once was," Bofur speculated, frowning at the number of smoke curls he could see across the stretch.

"What's it like now?" Bilbo asked curiously.

"Dunno, never been," Bofur grinned at him. "Da used to travel there for trade when he was a lad, and so did _his_ da. He said that despite its growing troubles, until the Great Plague of 1636, the place was a hive of merchants and goods the like of which you don't see much of these days, but then after the Plague, people moved on, the city became more of a small town on each bank of the river than anything, and trade dropped off. Our folk stopped trading there 'bout 150 years ago, when it weren't worth the trek no more."

Thorin hummed, eyes busy. "When the remains of Durin's folk were squatters on the plains of Dunland, we would often meet traders from Tharbad travelling the Old South Road, but the caravans were not rich, and what we could not trade for from those that travelled past, we went South, down into Rohan, sometimes as far as Edoras for work and goods, or East through our kin passes in the mountains. I never heard of Tharbad being a target of bandits, but that was a long time ago. We moved our people to the Blue Mountains 140 years past, and not many of my folk have reason to travel here," Thorin said, eyes busy and mind whirring. "Gandalf? Do you know anything of this?"

"I must admit," the grey one said slowly, "that the times I have travelled this far West in the last hundred years or so, I have had scarce reason to travel South-ways. The West has been the part of the lands mostly untroubled in recent times. I have directed my attentions elsewhere."

"So.... who the bloody Gypsum are they?" Dori pointed across the plain with no small amount of agitation.

"I don't recommend heading down to ask 'em," Glóin said darkly.

"Agreed," Gandalf said. "Although they are probably not that much to worry over, no doubt just Men attempting a settlement here, I suggest we press on."

Thorin hummed, and exchanged a glance with Bilbo, a conversation without words flowing easily between them.

"We stay out of sight," Thorin decided. "We'll camp off the other side of the road, low fires and extinguish them after dinner. We'll go slow and quiet, leave the road and cross-country straight across to the Swanfleet and then down to Tharbad."

"Do you want to cross at Swanfleet?" Glóin asked dubiously.

"Not really," Thorin frowned. "The area there is still mostly bog-land, and the further south we stay from the west gates of Khazad-dûm, the better."

"Those gates are cursed," Óin said ominously.

"Boys, did you find a sheltered spot for the night?" Thorin asked, looking to the strangely silent boys hovering at his shoulder.

"Got distracted," Fíli said, yanking his brother up by the tunic with him. "We'll go now."

"Mount up," Thorin told the others, moving himself back from his viewpoint.

Bilbo moved slowly, shoulders drooping some as he made his way back to Thistle, and Thorin grasped his arm, holding him back for a moment.

"Since you are taking your role within the Company as the moody pessimistic one so seriously," he started, "may I also take my assigned role as fluffy comforting bunny of sunshine and rainbows seriously, and attempt to cajole that frown off of your face?"

"Bunny?" Bilbo asked blankly, before his expression melted into fond amusement. "You'd look adorable with a bob-tail."

"Feel free to feel my arse for signs of growth," Thorin prodded and Bilbo chuffed a laugh, obligingly sliding his hand down behind Thorin's furs for a quick grope, before looping his arm around Thorin's waist.

"I was fooling myself, wasn't I? Believing that choosing a whole new path to Erebor would not bring a whole new set of troubles with it."

"That was somewhat... naïve," Thorin agreed. "But it was not as if we could continue on as we did the time before."

"Perhaps we have made a mistake," Bilbo fretted. "Perhaps we should have stuck to the script of the time before, continued on with what knowledge we had from our first attempt."

"It wouldn't have worked," Thorin disagreed quietly as he helped Bilbo onto his hinny, grateful the others were already heading on. "The last time around was too volatile, too many close calls for us to recreate them all. It wouldn't have worked. We both came to that conclusion before we even knew we were in this together."

Bilbo hummed in agreement, but his gaze was drawn back to the slim plumes of smoke rising behind them as they made their way off the road.

***


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have four fics on the go here, one of them an original story. I'm working hard to churn out chappies around my three kids- two with pretty serious health issues right now and the other one a three year old; hubby- who hates his job and needs some babying when he gets home; and trying to start up my own business. While pretending that I am still an adult and doing things like washing clothes and making dinners and cleaning dishes and such. I'm trying, babes! So, although I am making an effort to churn these out, sometimes there is going to be long gaps. Sorry guys.

****

Their journey to the crossing at Tharbad was not as fast as they desired it to be, in the end it took them a total of eight days from the time they had parted company with Tratha, riding straight towards the river as they had, and trailing the river down to Tharbad. There had been a close encounter when they had reached the water, the distant sound of howls of Wargs across the water echoing in the night, and they had packed and moved away as fast as they could, while still attempting to watch for pursuit. While Wargs couldn't cross the water there, they didn't want to attract the wrong type of attention. They had enough problems to deal with.

It had been, in the end, a journey of tension, and Bilbo had foolishly seen the end as being the crossing at Tharbad, some relief, a milestone of the journey achieved, or some such rubbish. 

Really, he should have learnt his lesson by now. _Always_ expect the very worst. 

Tharbad was long abandoned. The road by which they would have approached the town, had they continued along the Greenway, was gone. Tharbad, itself, on both sides of the river, was mere broken mounds of what used to be buildings, the bridge barely a husk of a shape across the dark of the water. And the ford... 

"Well lads, it's been a pleasure," Bofur sighed as the Company sat silent on ponies, regarding the challenge ahead.

"This is going to go _terribly_ ," Bombur moaned.

"Siginbuzunnukûd," Bifur agreed mournfully. 

The ford of Tharbad was wide. Wide, and what most would call _treacherous_. There was rubble and rocks and places where the current ran strong and rough, oval discolourations of eddies in odd places. Dark and just cloudy enough that one could not see _anything_ beneath the surface. And _wide_.

"I'll see you in the third round?" Bilbo said dubiously to Thorin in an undertone, who shook his head wryly.

"No going back now," he said, sliding off his pony and adjusting the various straps and buckles holding packs and such. "Bifur, Nori, Dori, we need all our rope. Minty is the largest of the ponies, so I will go first. We'll tie the ponies together, in a line, but we'll cross in a zigzag formation, strongest interspersed to be the higher upstream points. Bilbo," he swung, face schooled into something stern and a little fierce. "I want you between Dori and Glóin. And Patience will have to go last, behind Dwalin."

"But-"

"Don't argue," Dori huffed at Bilbo. "We'll look after you."

"My horse is larger, Thorin, I should go first," Gandalf piped up, appearing out of nowhere, _again_ , and Bilbo had the sneaking suspicion he hadn't been there the moment before. 

"No, I want you in the middle, a larger break in the water around us. We need to create our own eddy. Everyone, stay downstream to your ponies, we need to keep them on their feet, or we won't make it. Tighten girths and get packs secured higher on saddles; if we can do this with minimal loss to our supplies that would be a bloody miracle at this point," Thorin told them, already securing the rope to his tack and handing it off to Fíli to secure to his own.

"Thorin, are you certain this is.... safe?" Bilbo asked lowly as the others all hopped to it, forming a line and roping them together. He eyed Kíli as the lad left his pony to his brother and went to stand on the bank of the river, frowning at the opposite side and fondling an arrow head.

"Do we have a choice?" Thorin asked him, turning to adjust Bilbo's packs himself. Honestly, at times it was like he thought Bilbo helpless.

"Well, not really." He pushed Thorin aside to adjust his own girth, because he was not some simpering maiden, thank you very much. Even if it meant that Thistle would attempt to bite him again and step on his toes. "Perhaps there's a better place to cross further downstream. Or across the swampland farther up? No, I know, neither is going to work," he sighed when Thorin looked at him. "What do you think happened here? What happened to the people?"

"Whatever it was, I don't want us to stay here long enough to discover," Thorin said grimly. He stepped in closer for a moment, briefly tugging Bilbo into his side. "This place... We need to get across and leave. I don't like how this place makes me feel."

"How does it make you feel?"

"Nervous." Thorin tugged him to join the others in place, frown creasing his head. "Very, very nervous."

"Thorin!" Kíli called from the riverbank. "I'm pretty sure I could get a rope into that bridge support over there. Something light, at least."

"I've got a shroud-laid yarn with a copper wire core, here," Dori supplied, holding it up from where he was about to tie it to Thorin's pony. "We can spare it; I was going to use it as a second line between the ponies, and it might just be long enough."

Kíli weighed the entire coil of rope in his hand a moment, face thoughtful, before he dumped out every arrow he owned on the ground, even diving into both his and Fíli's packs for spare wrapped parcels, and rifled through them, weighing each carefully with the rope and testing the balance. Finally he nodded, and looked to his uncle.

"Give me fifteen, and I can get this attached. As long as that beam over there is as solid as it looks, we should have a safety line to keep the upstreamers steady."

"All right, do it," Thorin ordered, turning back to the packs. Five minutes later, Glóin had a fire going and a group of them were huddled around Kíli, 'helping' him attach the line to the arrow he intended to fire, and a hook to secure the other side, Balin with a what looked to be a tiny portable smithy kit, and somewhat worryingly, Gandalf produced a little packet of 'fizz-banger magic' with which to help. With the packs as high and secure as they could be, and the ropes all tied as tight as they were going to get, Thorin let himself drift over to Bilbo, who was blankly staring at the river.

"You will do just fine," he said, trying to make his voice sound convincing, while wondering whether it was Bilbo or himself he was reassuring. "Just keep a hold of Thistle and let Dori and Glóin keep you up."

“Of course I will!” asserted Bilbo with a heap more confidence than he actually felt. “Hobbits are not incapable around water you know. At least not all. Some actually build their homes near rivers. Stoors. There’s a fair bit of Stoor blood in the Brandybucks, for all that they are Fallohide, and this means I have a little Stoor in me too, through, well. Cousins and such, Brandybucks marry with the Tooks fairly regularly, so I am no doubt _riddled_ with Stoor blood, which means I am the Hobbit you want when it comes to water, let me tell you!"

Thorin stared hard a moment with raised eyebrows. His Bilbo did tend to ramble on when scared stiff. That didn't make it any less _confusing_.

"You will be _fine_ ," he insisted.

Bilbo only nodded, drooping slightly, and Thorin wrapped his arm around his shoulders, silently holding him as they regarded the river.

"This _can not_ be any worse than that bloody barrel ride, anyway," Thorin said after long moments. Bilbo huffed for a moment, before he finally began to smile. 

"That would be pretty hard to beat in terms of terrible water experiences," Bilbo agreed, burrowing further into Thorin's side. "I wonder why I haven't come up with more jokes based on the escapades of my Dwarrows. 'Thirteen Dwarves are stuffed in barrels, and the elven guard says-'"

"That is enough out of you," Thorin interjected firmly with a small shake, grinning when Bilbo started giggling into his furs. "I don't think I can take another day of terrible jokes if you start that again."

"I don't know why everyone hates Kíli's jokes, they're pretty funny."

"Shh," Thorin admonished, peering over Bilbo's shoulder to check the location of his youngest nephew. "Please don't be telling him that to his face, or he'll tell his Short joke to every person, tree and rock we encounter for the next month. And then I will have to strangle myself with Minty's reins. It will be very tragic. You'll cry."

Bilbo's giggles started afresh, and he turned, burying himself properly into Thorin's front. Thorin smiled into Bilbo's curls, before running his hand down to twine with Bilbo's, running his thumb over his pulse point and nudging against the charm.

"Still remember me?" he asked quietly, and Bilbo nodded, head tilting back to smile at him fondly.

"Always."

"And the Ring?" Thorin asked even quieter.

For the briefest of moments, Bilbo's forehead creased, and his eyes were vacant, and then he nodded, though hesitantly.

"Yes. Though never until you ask me. I think it is a good thing," he reassured when Thorin looked worried. "Last time... when I first found it, I would all of a sudden realise I had my hand in my pocket to touch it. Or we would be walking and you would call for a break and I would realise I had been thinking about it for hours. As I got older, it was a large part of my life, all the time quick to hand or mind. Now... I never remember it is there, and I am not reaching for it. I think the charm... I think it is trying to protect me from the influence of the Ring. And it does it by... making me not think about it?"

Thorin mulled the thought over in his head. It actually made a sort of twisted sense.

"When I was a lad, learning the old tales, I remember the tutor telling me that the One Ring was a thing of evil. That it had the power to blacken a soul to complete darkness, 'till no good remained of the one who carried it. When you told me of your madness, I... made an assumption. I have been assuming that since you are so, so.. _good_ , that your madness was a result of the Ring fighting to turn such a light soul to evil. I hadn't thought of the Ring as having a direct influence on your mind. I feel a fool for assuming so, now. That it affected _soul_ and not mind."

"So you think that the Ring doesn't taint the soul, just twists the mind?"

Thorin shrugged, uncertainty radiating from him. 

"I don't really know. But Tratha's charm is supposed to protect from insidious influences, and you think it is protecting you, then... perhaps. Or, the charm may be more focused on repelling evil, I do not know. For now, I take comfort in believing that it is helping you."

"At least until we get to Galadriel," Bilbo agreed, leaning back into Thorin and returning to his study of the water. There was only an hour or two left until the sun disappeared, and in the meantime, clouds were gathering quite thick across the horizon. They needed to get across the river before rain made the level rise higher than they could handle.

Good thing Bilbo had packed _well_ this time. No rain down _this_ Hobbit's neck this time.

"Alright, Uncle, I'm ready," Kíli called from the huddle of tinkering Dwarrow and wizard. Thorin allowed himself one more squeeze of his Hobbit before striding back to the others.

"Are you certain you can do this, Kíli?" Bilbo fretted, hovering at his side.

Kíli looked across at Fíli with no small amount of incredulity, as if to ask ‘Is he seriously questioning _my_ ability with a bow?' At a smirk and a shake of the head as answer he turned back to Bilbo.

"I have one of my best steel bolts, and a good dwarven crossbow. The aim is dodgy with something this powerful, but that beam is wide. And I've got this rope on good and proper with Gandalf's 'magic' powder, which is really just urs powder with a bit extra in it." 

"Urs... fire? Fire powder?" Bilbo asked, and Kíli nodded. "I didn't even know you had a crossbow with you."

"Oh, yeah. I've left it in my packs 'til now because it's not as versatile as my recurve, but I thought I might like to have something a little more heavy duty as backup, you know?"

Bilbo nodded hesitantly at Kíli's earnest eager expression, watching him carefully cock the nasty looking crossbow with Fíli's assistance, and set the bolt in place. There was a little murmuring and manoeuvring, trying to keep the line from sitting amongst the bow's working but loose enough so as not to catch and cause the bolt to fall short, but Fíli draped the line over his arms and Kíli knelt at his feet, slowly breathing as he lined up his shot.

An inhale and hold, and the bolt flew, almost too fast for Bilbo to track, embedding itself deep into the beam across the river with a solid thunk. The Company cheered, and Nori tied the cord off on his grapple, before darting off to set it tight on the side they stood. Bilbo let out the breath he had not ever realised he had been holding.

"Good Dwarvish Crossbows are feared throughout the land. Although we prefer to fight with honour, sword to sword, when we defend a place, others know not to bet their armour against our bows. Even Kíli's little thing there could penetrate steel armour with ease," Thorin told him, rubbing his back comfortingly.

"You call that thing little?" Bilbo asked with no small amount of incredulity. Thorin chuckled, leading him off to Thistle, helping him off with his cloak to tie it to his saddle. It would only get in the way, and no doubt he would want something warm and dry to wrap in after this.

"When Erebor stood at its peak of power, our battlements were lined with soldiers armed with heavy crossbows so great, they had stirrups to hold them steady with boots while they were wound to load. The soldiers had the art of firing perfected so volleys fell near constantly, some firing while others wound theirs to cock them. And great windlances, so large, they took two Dwarrow to wind and load, with great spears that could break up whole phalanxes with a single shot."

"How... lovely," Bilbo said faintly, and Thorin chuckled again. "Pity we're to lose our supplies on this, though."

"Nope," Thorin said, pointing to where Nori was fiddling with the hook. "That's a Dwarven spring-loaded grapple. See the second line Nori has there? When we are across, he'll give that a good yank, and if all goes well, a second spring in the working will release the tension in the arms, and he can pull it loose. If we manage this as planned, we'll leave no trace of our crossing behind."

"If we manage as planned," Bilbo muttered, nervously shifting in place. Since Thorin had said it, a looming sense of foreboding was colouring all his expectations of crossing the treacherous water.

"You'll be fine," Thorin insisted again, kissing him once, hard and desperate before striding over to his pony.

"One last thing," he told them all, turning to catch the eye of each Dwarf, Wizard and Hobbit in turn. "Someone goes down, _do not_ break the line. If we break the line, none of us will make it. Someone goes down, we get to the bank, and _then_ go for the rescue. Do I make myself clear?"

"Let's get this done!" he hollered when they nodded, slowly inching Minty forward, and the Company followed. The ponies weren't too eager to obey, chomping and dancing nervously, both at the rushing water, and the closeness they were herded into walking. They were trained well, though, and plunged into the water on command.

"Yadi, Thorin!" Bifur yelled, and tossed their leader a long solid stick. Thorin nodded, and used it to probe at the waters below, guiding Minty down through the path he felt out, Bombur following on his upside, gripping their safety line. 

Almost immediately on entering the water, Bilbo felt his feet slip, and he gasped and yanked himself up holding onto Thistle, Glóin cursing behind him. The pace was almost torturously slow, allowing Thorin to pick out the safer paths for everyone, occasionally calling back when he found particularly dangerous rocks or debris under the surface.

Perhaps it was from Thorin's probing with his stick, perhaps his hinny's hoof stuck, perhaps it was just bad luck, but two thirds across the river ( _almost there!_ ), up to Bilbo's waist in water, and Thistle stumbled, debris slipping away beneath them. Bilbo's heart gave a lurch and he gasped, and _pushed_ , shoving Thistle upright as the poor beast thrashed for a moment, righting himself, and just when his heart started to calm, his foot slipped and a piece of _something_ hit his leg at about the same time as Glóin yelled his name in panic, and he was under.

The current caught him straight away, and he tumbled, the world a blur of swirling darkness, unable to tell up from down before he jarred straight into a rock and abruptly surfaced, the panicked yells of the Company and Thorin's roar sounding in his ears before he was under again.

It was odd, being under this sort of water. Sound muffled but roaring, dizzying, curling, things flashing past in the current. Sometimes he saw flashes that he thought was light, but was fast rushing froth, and he kept _tumbling_ , over and over and over, reaching, feeling rock and silt touch his fingers, scrabbling for hold but grasping nothing, over and over and over...

Another rock and he was above the surface again, and he gasped, vision swimming, dizzy and choking and Thorin's desperate calls so far off, and abruptly, he was aware of facing the bank from which they had just come. The world slowed, narrowed, gaze locked on the billowing cloaks of dark riders galloping towards the river, bearing down on the Company.

"Thorin," he managed to gasp just once, and he was under.

***

There was a trick to a decent flower crown. You couldn't just grab any old flowers and wind 'em around each other and end up with something lovely and perky and wearable. No, it was a skill, something you perfected over time. Choosing the perfect stem thickness and length, finding the sweet spot to slide a fingernail through a stem that wouldn't damage the flower or weaken the stem, the correct arrangement of blooms to show off the best aspect of each, the size, the colour, the grouping.

Bilbo was bloody good at it, in his most humble opinion.

Roses were difficult, with their thorns, both big and tiny, but the stems were tough and thick. Pity he was missing his favourite little pruning knife, good for stripping thorns. Worth it, he though, sliding a sprig of dog-violet into the slit he had made in one of the -very large, mother would have been so jealous of these- pale yellow roses he had chosen for the main body of his crown. He flopped into a patch of grass as he wove the last of his stems together, humming in satisfaction as his creation came together.

"What are you doing?"

Bilbo started, turning to look over his shoulder. Thorin looked slightly out of place in the garden of the elves, all heavy furs and armour, even here in the sanctuary of Rivendell. 

Still one of the loveliest sights Bilbo had ever seen, though, even amongst the beauty of the elves most beautiful blooms.

"Just, weaving," he stammered, blushing, holding up the crown for Thorin's approval.

"Weaving?" Thorin wondered, lowering himself to sit on the grass next to Bilbo.

"Helps me think," Bilbo told him as Thorin took the crown. He examined it a moment before resting it on Bilbo's head, frowning when it immediately slipped down over his eyes.

"It's too big," he said, tone slightly regretful, and Bilbo smiled.

"No it's not." 

He blushed at the intensity of Thorin's study of him as he lifted the crown off his own head and onto Thorin's, the blooms setting perfectly into position. 

"A crown for a king," Bilbo murmured, leaning back.

There was an expression his mother had used occasionally, that Bilbo had always remembered, and at one time not understood. 'Sometimes you don't know the value of a moment until it becomes a memory'. He wasn't quite sure why that particular saying was popping into his head; he was certainly aware of the value of _this_ particular moment, and it would most certainly be a most precious of memories. A beautiful dwarven king, crowned in yellow roses and delicate purple blooms, wind teasing his hair, expression happy, slight smile so very fond. The most perfect of pictures.

"A thorny crown," he murmured, fingers reaching to touch Bilbo's cheek ever so gently before dropping away again.

"Suits your surly disposition," Bilbo said calmly, reaching for those retreating fingers, weaving his own through them.

"What did you come to think about?" Thorin asked him, and Bilbo regarded their wound fingers thoughtfully for a moment.

"You kissed me," he said finally, eyes lifting to Thorin's.

"You kissed _me_ ," Thorin rebuked gently.

"Fíli pushed me," Bilbo shrugged, flushing. Thorin shot him a look filled with amusement.

"Pushed," he said lowly, tone far too amused. "I'm sure."

Bilbo huffed and looked away, enjoying the sun on his face, the peace that had been missing so much lately. Never any chance to just sit and relax! 

"Even if I _did_ kiss you first, and I'm not saying I did!" he insisted. "You kissed me back. You kissed me back a _lot_."

"Yes," Thorin agreed, plucking an unused sprig of dog-violet up off the grass and gently tucking it behind Bilbo's ear. "Do you mind?"

Bilbo's hand tightened on Thorin's much larger one. Honestly. What a question.

"No," he answered through thickened throat. "I don't mind at all."

No matter what would come after, there was never going to be a moment he regretted his answer, as he was sure that Thorin's smile was so very worth it.

***

His chest _hurt_. Like the time he had been running through one of the dining rooms when mother was setting the places, and she had _told_ him to be careful, but he hadn't, and accidentally brought one of the great heavy chairs she set at the head of the table for Grandpa Took had come down upon his little body. The chair back had been a great heavy weight on his chest, too heavy to push off, barely able to draw breath, struggling to cry out for mother to _help_ before she had cried out at the door and dropped the tea service that had been a gift from aunt Donnamira, the crash echoing and tinkling as mother lifted the chair and he gasped and gasped.

"Breathe, my love, just breathe," Thorin soothed, rubbing at his back as he coughed and his breath rasped heavy, eyes fluttering open and shut again, as he found himself facing a roaring fire.

"Ow," he managed to croak, slitting his eyes open a little. He was on his side, he realised, lying down on his side. The great radiating warmth at his back was Thorin. And he should surely feel somewhat embarrassed at the fact that they were both stripped down to their smalls in front of an audience, if the low murmur of many voices around him was any indication. He was on furs, though, and piled high with blankets. And a roof above them? Crumbling, but a roof.

Just that small observation was enough to have him slumping back in exhaustion, gratefully sinking back into Thorin's roaring heat as he shivered, noticing all at once that he was using Thorin's upper arm as a pillow. It was strangely reassuring.

Tharbad. They had been crossing the Greyflood at Tharbad.

"You didn't break the line, did you?" he croaked, and Thorin snorted a short unamused laugh behind him.

"I knew that you'd ask that first. No, I did not break the line. We finished the crossing. Everyone else is fine."

"You got to me," Bilbo whispered, feeling Thorin's tension, though his words only caused his husband to stiffen further.

"No, I didn't. You were halfway down the river before we even really knew you were gone. Had you not caught on that piece of stone, Tratha would not have been able to get to you in time."

"Tratha?" Bilbo asked hoarsely, eyes falling shut again already. 

Dark riders. Cloaks billowing in the wind, galloping...

"Rangers came, just as you fell. Tratha was amongst them, he plunged straight in after you on that great beast of his. He got to you. He brought you back to me."

I thought," Bilbo mumbled, eyelids so heavy. "I thought..."

"What?" Thorin asked, but Bilbo was already sleeping.

Next thing of which he was aware, was Óin smearing the most potent mixture known to all the intelligent races across his chest. He managed a hoarse hacking noise of protest before his eyes teared up at the smell, but breathing was almost instantly easier, made ever better, or worse, by the steaming bowl of something noxious plonked by his face. 

"Breathe that in, Mr Baggins. We'll have you fixed up in no time," a cheerful voice told him, and Bilbo rolled his head back to view the Man leaning over them, a beaming grin meeting his inquisitive eye.

"Talli, son of Bolaham, at your service Mr Baggins," he introduced himself cheerfully. "You've already met my brother Tratha."

No wonder Tratha had gotten along so well with the lads; if ever there was such a thing as a Man-version of Fíli and Kíli, this was surely it, enthusiastically waving his hand at Bilbo's slack-jawed expression and dubious "A pleasure".

"You see it too, don't you," Thorin sighed mournfully in his ear, and Bilbo could not help the bout of giggles from that, even if they did make his chest gurgle horribly.

" _Ow_ ," he insisted, even as he grinned, eyes streaming. 

"Breathe in that mix, Bilbo," Óin insisted, pushing the bowl closer to his face, and shoving Thorin back some to coat Bilbo's back in whichever of his special 'Óintments' he had chosen for the occasion.

"I'm fine," he insisted, before he coughed and then sneezed rapidly three times, before coughing and sneezing twice more.

"The prefect picture of health," a wry voice insisted from nearby, and Bilbo owlishly swivelled to locate it. 

"Halaron! How nice to see you. I'd offer tea..." he trailed off, and the serious-faced Ranger managed a smile.

"Perhaps, under the circumstances, Mr Baggins, I could offer _you_ tea?" he suggested, motioning to the large kettle set above the fire.

"Well that would be lovely," Bilbo nodded politely, wincing slightly as Óin managed to efficiently -and somehow both violently and gently- work a wrapping of some sort beneath and around him, binding his smeared torso, and allowing Thorin to tug him in tight again.

"I'll get the leaves," Dori said, popping up, and Bilbo smiled at him, even as Dori glared at him and fussed off. 

If Bilbo wasn't so very used to Dori's epic glares of 'you scared the charcoal out of me - never do that again', he'd be worried the Dwarf was angry with him.

"He'll need to eat, won't he? Eating will help, right?" Bofur tugged on the flaps of his hat anxiously, standing over a cook pot, irritably slapping away Bombur's attempts to assist.

"Hot broth," Óin insisted firmly. "Perhaps some taters from the stew."

"That sounds lovely," Bilbo assured Bofur, when he turned beseeching eyes on Bilbo. As if. He wasn't harebrained enough to argue with Óin in full healer-mode.

"You have to stop doing things like this, Mr Baggins," Tratha said, coming to stand nearby. "I don't know if I can stand the stress if you keep scaring everyone all the time."

"Oh, so we're back to 'Mr Baggins' again," Bilbo huffed, until Tratha relented, tilting his head and murmuring a "Bilbo" in acknowledgement. "I'll have you know that most everything that happens to me is _not_ my fault."

"I said it, didn't I? You attract trouble everywhere you go," Thorin admonished, but Bilbo could hear the slight edge of amused exasperation, and rolled his head enough to grin wryly back at his poor Dwarf.

" _Not_ my fault."

"We'll still have to watch you," Tratha admonished. "I already know that protecting you is going to be a difficult job."

"I haven't agreed to anything yet," Thorin bit out behind him, and Bilbo raised an enquiring brow at the Ranger.

"Your reference to 'The Witch' made me highly suspicious of your journey," Tratha shrugged. "The only being I know that Dwarrows consistently refer to as Witch, is the Lady Galadriel. I had this funny feeling you really weren't headed to Bree," he said wryly. "And then, to no great surprise, you turned the instant you thought I was gone and flew back down the opposite direction. Argus gave me leave to gather some kin and make all haste after you."

"To stop us?" Bilbo asked carefully, and Tratha tilted his head at him.

"I very much doubt I'd be able to stop you from doing anything, Master Hobbit," Tratha mused. "But no. A Dwarf king gathers a group of compatriots and sets off to voluntarily see an Elf? Something is afoot. I and my kin here will accompany you on your journey."

"I _haven't_ agreed to anything yet," Thorin reminded him.

"I don't think they really need your permission to go where they please, Thorin," Bilbo murmured, frowning in consideration.

"There are many more of us than of them," Thorin said darkly, and Bilbo aimed a few careful slaps at what skin he could reach.

" _Really_ , Thorin, behave yourself. There really is no reason they shouldn't travel with us."

"Quite right, Bilbo," Gandalf said, stalking out of the shadows with a little pouch. "Chew a bit of this, please Bilbo. It will prevent an infection in your chest."

"We don't need _Men_ meddling in our affairs," Thorin told the wizard harshly, even as he so very gently helped Bilbo to sit and lift the strange herb mix out of the pouch to chew.

"How, exactly, is this 'meddling in our affairs', if you don't mind? Travelling with Rangers so close to the mountains can only be a boon, surely?" Gandalf insisted. Thorin glared his blackest scowl, and really, Bilbo was far too tired to deal with this ridiculousness. Normally he would save the back up weapon for emergencies, but hard times and all that.

"Thorin?" he said softly, sinking back and adding just the right amount of waver to his tone. "Please?" Add in the weary eyes and woebegone expression, and hey presto, they were in business. Thorin wilted under his gaze, running one of his giant paws softly over Bilbo's curls. 

"Bilbo," he reproached, well aware the Bilbo was attempting to manipulate him. However, the fact that Bilbo was prepared to attempt manipulation just made Thorin weaken; if Bilbo truly wanted something, there wasn't a lot Thorin wouldn't do to give it to him.

"Fine," he huffed when Bilbo's forehead creased that way it did when he looked to be holding back tears. "Invite the Men. Invite a few Elves! Why not invite a few Orcs, while we're at it?"

"No need to get huffy, dear," Bilbo said softly, fluttering please eyelashes at Thorin, who huffed again.

"It's my Company and I'll huff if I want to," he muttered, easing Bilbo back down and scowling at the Men, who had gone from smirking to out-right snickering into their hands at the interaction.

"Where are we, by the way?" Bilbo asked, chewing his mouthful of herbs slowly, eyes wandering what of the room he could see.

"We're in the remains of one of the buildings of Tharbad on the Enedwaith bank. This building is one of the last two-story places remaining, and the roof down here is crumbling, but protected enough by the upper floor that we'll be comfortable enough out of the storm that's moving in. We had to find some place to get you warm," Thorin finished quietly.

"Storm?" Bilbo asked as he patted Thorin's arm, raising his head again to listen, and there, the sound of gentle rain.

"Bound to hit in the night, at this rate. We may even have to stay put through the day, tomorrow," Gandalf told him gravely. Pity the old codger was unaware of his previous association with a Hobbit, or he may try harder with his deceptions. Bilbo's eyes narrowed.

"True enough, should this weather set in, could be dangerous to be riding on," Halaron agreed, face overly blank as he gently placed a steaming cup within Bilbo's reach.

"Aye, the ponies need some recovery time, after that crossing," Thorin hurriedly agreed, and Bilbo growled. The effect may have been more impressive if it hadn't set off another coughing and sneezing fit, his body curling forward into a ball at the force of it. Ori appeared over Thorin's shoulder, offering two of the handkerchiefs from Bilbo's stash, and Bilbo managed a weak beaming smile. Ori was his new best friend.

"We're not camping here for days on end and losing time," he managed after a few nice blows of his nose and a nice big swallow of hot tea, "because I was silly enough to take an impromptu swim. Unless trees are being uprooted by the wind, I don't see why we cannot continue our journey."

"An impromptu swim?" Glóin roared from the other side of the fire. "By my beard, you ridiculous Hobbit, you _drowned_. Swept away before I could get to you! The Ranger had to force the water from your chest, and the breath back into your lungs! If'n the Wizard and my brother say you're t' rest, you'll be resting!"

Bilbo gaped.

"But..."

"I believe you've been told, Mr Baggins," Nori said, shooting him a _look_. How people always came to the assumption that _Dori_ was the more protective of his brothers, Bilbo never could work out. Nori was a whole new level of scary, when he wanted to be. And it seemed that right now, he wanted to be.

"But..." he tried just once more, voice wavering. Bifur leant over Thorin to hand Bilbo a bowl of a meaty-smelling broth, a little mound of mashed-down taters from the stew in the middle. 

“I nearly drowned?” Bilbo whispered, somewhat befuddled.

“There’s no _nearly_ about it!” growled Thorin, “So much for your having a little Stoor in you!”

“It was NOT my fault”, protested Bilbo, “ and you know my family history – I DO have a little Stoor in me. Although right now, there is something more dwarvish I’d like to have in me,” he finished on a petulant mumble, ignoring Bifur's noise of choked surprise.

Thorin coughed loudly to cover his snort of amusement. His Hobbit was incorrigible!

"Yadi," Bifur said, gesturing a clear 'eat', and he handed Bilbo a spoon with a reproachful look.

"Fine, whatever you say," Bilbo sighed, letting Thorin shift them so he could lift the spoon for Bilbo. He only managed to get half-way through the bowl, under the silent observation of a room full of Dwarrows and Men before he was yawning. 

Later, he wouldn't even remember shifting, curling around with his back to the fire, burying his face into Thorin's chest with a sigh.

What he _would_ remember, was the brief flash of worry as he considered whether that bloody Ring was still where he left it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know, dearest cutie-pies, if I am being too subtle with this here plot line. Did anybody get who Bilbo thought was galloping towards the river? And who actually was? Too much?
> 
> Also, peeps, Siginbuzunnukûd apparently means _boots_ , which made me laugh hard enough to choke, so of course, Bifur is mourning the water in his boots from the crossing, but seriously, how could I not pop that massive long Khuzdul word for _boots_ in there?


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'ello all peeps still willing to stick around. Bit of a break again, I know. Be comforted by the fact that Beta-Beth (WHO IS AMAZING AND AWESOME) has the next chapter of this, and another is well into production, hee. For anybody who is crazy enough to follow my other story, Into the Woods, there is a chapter of that being edited now to go up in the next few days, and I also have a few one-shots that just need a final polish, if you want to torture yourself with more of my warped prose. 
> 
> All the darlings that have continued to leave comments, you guys all need snuggles- they really do brighten my day, and almost always turn up when I need them most. Thanks, peeps.

"You know," Gandalf said idly, as Bilbo came awake, "eventually, you will have to start telling me some truths."

"Don't know what you mean," Bilbo yawned, or tried to, discovering that his throat was swollen and sore and rasping. " _Ow_."

"Drink," Gandalf ordered as he started to cough, shoving a rather hot cup into his hand, and helping him sit.

Thorin, he realised, was not behind him any longer. Bilbo let his gaze wander, vaguely feeling a little miffed as he sipped at the brew Gandalf handed him. Tart, sharp, lovely and warm on his throat, stripping back what felt like a thick coat of gunk off the back of his tongue. It would have been the perfect topper to a pleasant waking, had he woken wrapped up in his husband's lovely warm arms. 

"He's with Halaron, checking on the ponies," the wizard told him, settling back and pulling his pipe out. Blasted wizard had always denied being able to read minds, but there were times Bilbo had his doubts. "Apparently, your Hinny isn't in much of a mood, not that he ever seems to be. Wouldn't let any but your husband look over his hoofs or check for burrs. Odd little thing." 

"No odder than some of us," Bilbo sighed, gently stretching his limbs. He honestly didn't feel that bad, considering. It seemed there were some advantages to being fussed over by a Dwarven healer and a Wizard. To say nothing of the Men and their insistence in shoving steaming bowls of strange brew in front of his face.

"Is that thunder?" he asked at a low rumble, and Gandalf hummed his affirmative.

Half the Company was sleeping, he discovered as he glanced around the room. The Fellowship of Reds were up, he noticed, Nori probably telling some tall tales, judging by the amused looks of Glóin and Bombur, who were busy making up batches of the savoury spiced flatbreads the Dwarves favoured as travel rations to pop into the fires. Bilbo could see the Ur's and the other Ri's snoozing, near Tratha's brother and two Men Bilbo didn't recognise -though it was difficult to tell from their sleeping backs-, and Óin was propped up on a wall nearby, mouth wide open and snoring loudly. Balin and Dwalin were seated talking quietly in a doorway across the room, with Tratha who appeared to be mending something.

The lads were nowhere to be seen. Either corralled into helping their uncle, or off getting themselves into a whole mess of trouble. 

"You can trust me, Bilbo," Gandalf suddenly said after a while, eyes on the far wall, as if he could see all that happened beyond it 

Perhaps he could.

"Of course I can," Bilbo agreed, easing himself back down into the furry nest that had been built up around him. Honestly, no greater mother hens existed beyond the worry warts that were Dwarves. And Wizards. And Rangers. "You are one of my greatest friends."

"A lofty claim, for one who has known me some very short time."

"Or perhaps we have been great friends for many many years," Bilbo sighed, "and you just don't remember." 

Gandalf was silent for a very long time, while the nearby fire crackled and snapped happily in tune to low rolling thunder and the pitter patter of rain. Long enough that Bilbo's eyes were drooping heavily again, watching the smoke curl up and wisp away through the cracks above them.

"What else do I not remember?" he finally asked, voice hushed, and when Bilbo swivelled to look at him, he thought for a second that the wizard looked somewhat afraid.

"Nearly everything important," he admitted with no small amount of regret. "But you aren't the only one. And there are some things you are better off forgetting."

He yawned then, so very sleepy already. It wasn't as if Thorin, or anyone else in their rapidly expanding Company, was going to let him travel today, least of all in bad weather, so there was really no reason to force himself to stay awake. 

"Do let Thorin know I will be most displeased if he isn't here when I next wake," he grumbled, eyes closing.

*****

" _Bugger_ ," he said aloud, sitting upright with a start, and Thorin flailed behind him.

"You're awake," he breathed, grasping at Bilbo, even as the Hobbit kicked and pushed at their coverings, working himself out of their bedding.

"Yes, and I am so glad you were here when I woke, but I have to go now," he apologised, yanking one of the furs up to wrap himself in and making for the door.

"Bilbo!" came the call from a half a dozen different sources, but he had already skipped over most of the packs and Dwarven limbs in his path and managed to make his way out the door, and into another smaller room. A shop front, he was sure, making for the ruins of a door leading out, down a small set of stairs. It would have been a grand shop, he thought, a lovely store front and an expansive storage or work area, where they must be camping; the second floor must have been living quarters for the shop owner. 

Outside it was raining, and he glanced around for some clue as to where they may be keeping the ponies, before a soft nicker sounded down to the right and across what used to be a street.

He was halfway there before he stopped and shook his head, spinning on his heel and racing back the way he'd come, past most of the Company and the Men, who had followed him out into the street.

"Stupid, stupid, _think!_ " he muttered to himself, coming to stand back in the room where they were camped. There he frowned.

"I need my clothes," he announced, spinning in place, trying to locate his vest and coat. _Which pocket, I cannot remember, which pocket?_

"Your pack is here," Ori volunteered. "I can get your clothes ready, if you want to dress?"

"I need the clothes I had on," Bilbo insisted, resuming his spinning and pacing. "I need the specific clothes I had on in the river."

"Bilbo," Thorin said behind him quietly.

"Oh, I laundered them," Dori said, bustling over to the packs and bending to rifle.

"Bilbo-"

"You laundered them?" Bilbo asked sharply, taking a step forward, hand dropping automatically for a sword not there, not missed by most of the sharp eyes of various figures in the room. "And what of the items in the pockets?"

"Bilbo," Thorin said again.

"Pockets?" Dori frowned, abruptly noticing Bilbo's aggressive stance. "A packet of drowned biscuits that I threw to the birds and your handkerchief, that I laundered also. The standard supply packets you foisted on us, which miraculously survived, a flint and a pocket knife. What else would there have been?" he bristled.

" _Bilbo_ ," Thorin said insistently behind him, and the tone made Bilbo freeze. 

Slowly he turned, Thorin standing stiff and uncertain behind him.

"When Tratha- when you came from the water. I..."

Bilbo took a step backwards, eyes widening, and something pained and sorrowful flashed across Thorin's face for a moment before he pulled his sleeve back.

"Oh," Bilbo said dumbly, only now taking note of his own bare wrists. "Oh," he said again, eyes tracing over Tratha's charm, the brown leather almost invisible next to Thorin's standard wear.

"Bugger," he sighed, moving forward quickly to wrap his arms around his husband.

Thorin remained stiff for a moment before he returned the embrace with a shudder.

"It fell from your pocket, as he pulled you from the water. I saw it fall and I took the charm and went after it."

"I'm afraid," Bilbo whispered apologetically, "that advanced age has made me a suspicious old codger."

"We can't really afford to _not_ be suspicious right now, can we?" Thorin whispered back, forgiving him so easily.

"I'm still sorry," he admitted. Thorin shrugged.

"Sorry or not, you are right. I _really_ should not be carrying this thing."

Bilbo drew back and looked Thorin in the eye.

"I really would prefer if you would take it back soon," Thorin whispered. "It doesn't have to be right now," he assured when Bilbo's expression turned frantic. "I can go a little longer like this. I just know, that if it came down to it, eventually..." he shrugged, smile depreciating and a touch bitter. "Eventually, it would win."

"Thorin," Bilbo gasped, heart thundering in his chest.

"It was always meant to be you, dearest one," Thorin told him, dipping to touch their foreheads together. "There can be only one bearer. But I will not let you walk alone."

"Now," Bilbo insisted shakily. "I did not want it to touch you. This is my burden to bear-"

" _Our_ burden to bear," Thorin insisted, but he allowed Bilbo to slide his fingers under the leather of the protective bracelet. "I just let you do all the heavy work."

For a moment, fingers worked under leather and curling into the warmth of Thorin's palm, there was a flash, a glimpse, all that was Thorin, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, visible for him to see, a great pillar of warmth and strength and determination. Not a smooth, pretty pillar that one would find in an Elvish palace, or even one of the immense, impressive squared blocks of gold-etched rock within the halls of Erebor that Bilbo had witnessed so long before. Reminiscent of a Dwarvish pillar, but this one was old, cracked, and crumbled in spots. Damaged, but patched and reinforced, not broken, just a little worn from the strain. His Thorin.

And there, off to the side, oily slickness, restless and hungry, reaching and reaching, ready to wrap itself around the pillar that was Thorin. And the only thing holding it back, something that muttered and chanted like Bifur on a bad night, something hard like his husband and their kin, but sharp, _biting_ in a way that Dwarrows were not, something foreign but familiar, snapping back at the darkness, driving it _back_ -

Angry screeching, fury and restless rage against vicious triumph-

He blinked and the second was past, Thorin pressing the little pouch he had made into his hand, giving his other one last squeeze before slipping himself from the charm and removing himself from Bilbo's touch completely, stepping back a pace, and then another.

"Ori," Thorin rasped, clearing his throat once, before taking his gaze from Bilbo to the silent group behind them. "Bilbo will need his clothes now. In his pack, there is a pair of longer fur-lined trousers we packed for the winter months, and with them, a heavier vest. Make sure he layers up, and get his cloak around him. Dori, I would appreciate it if you poured some tea into him. Óin, if you wanted to examine him, I suggest you do so now, he'll be bothersomely resistant if you let him dress first..." he trailed off, aware that he sounded awfully like his husband for a moment, babbling like he was, and he cleared his throat again and fell silent.

One step to the side and he carefully walked past the silent Company, out the door, out the building, into the cold air beyond.

***

"You are a _puzzle_ Master Baggins," Tratha said, coming to sit beside a grumbling Bilbo. 

Bilbo glared.

"My apologies. You are a puzzle, _Bilbo_."

"And why am I a puzzle, Mr Ranger?' Bilbo asked, ignoring Tratha's look of exasperation in favour of watching his Dwarves go through the motions of packing their belongings, stamping down fires and such. The two Men he had not been introduced to yet -one of which he had been startled to notice this very morning was a Woman- had disappeared with Halaron to scout ahead for a time. Thankfully, he had taken Talli with him. Thankfully, since Fíli and Kíli had decided that he was their new very best friend. Bilbo was of the opinion that the whole of Middle Earth was now _doomed_. 

Bilbo was not a happy chap. After Thorin had walked away he had been accosted by Óin, and the sneaky sod had actually talked Dori into spiking his tea, so he'd been out like a light in about three minutes, barely managing to shove the Ring down his smalls before passing out. Not the most pleasant thing to be dreaming and waking to. When considering rings in relation to his cock, there were much preferable rings to be considering.

Which led to his great lummox of a husband. It wasn't as if Thorin was avoiding him as such. He'd been there when Bilbo had awoken this morning, assisted him in dressing -even when Bilbo had insisted that he was _fine_ , and very much not a child, thank you very much- and presented him with a lovely bowl of breakfast and a perfectly hot cup of tea with a soft lingering kiss... even despite all that, Bilbo got the feeling of Thorin being somewhat... separate, from him.

It was _awful_. 

If he was entirely honest with himself, it was like they were back in the days of the beginnings of their relationship. The contrast was startling; Bilbo had not realised how _much_ Thorin had changed since their, well, first time around. Oh, he'd noticed the difference; Thorin was lighter, _fuller_ somehow. It had been such a joy to see him so happy, that Bilbo had not even realised just how _much_ of himself had been buried in obligation, worn down with the weight of his people and his legacy. Feeling this withdrawal was jarring, like taking a step back into a past that didn't exist anymore. And not knowing what precisely had caused it, or how he could fix it.

And so here he was, forced to sit and watch as the Company made ready to leave, not allowed to lift a bloody finger to help, when all he wanted right now was busy work to take his mind off the fact that Thorin's mind seemed to be elsewhere.

"That Dwarf of yours," Tratha suddenly said. "He absolutely adores you, Bilbo Baggins. He _lives_ , breathes, exists for you. I knew what had happened as we made for the river by his screams before I saw you bobbing about in the water. He could not run fast enough to get to you when I placed you on the river bank, Bilbo. I could see the fear in his eyes, the desolate terror. He thought that he had lost you. He thought you were _lost_ to him."

Bilbo sucked in a breath that caught in his throat, a hard lump of something that felt like fury burning at his chest. At himself, oddly enough.

Hadn't Thorin been through enough?

"So I was somewhat taken aback, when on reaching us, he made to seize you to him, only to suddenly look past me to the river. He looked past me, his gaze widened in shock, and he _tore_ that charm I gave you away from your wrist -that a week and some ago we had been unable to remove, when last you were unconscious- and raced away.

"I did not see what he picked up, only that he himself was almost swept away to do so. I know that he tucked it away with barely a look, and came back to you immediately, without pause. It was almost as if I had imagined it, to be honest, so fast was he, and acted as if nothing off had happened at all."

Bilbo said nothing. Really, what was there that he could say?

"The thing is, too, Bilbo... Is that I know that just as Thorin's heart beats for you, so does yours for him. Your face as it follows his movements is one of adoration, at all times, Bilbo. So why then, when you realised that Thorin had whatever you were so desperate to find, did you step back from him? What is so important that you would allow it to come before what you have together?"

"Nothing will ever-" Bilbo started reflexively, defensively, til his brain clicked over and answered the question for himself.

"Out of the mouth of babes," he murmured, smiling slightly to himself. Tratha cocked his head and quirked an eyebrow at him.

"I am Dúnedain, Bilbo. I will enjoy a lifespan comparable to your Dwarrows. I am almost seventy years of age now. Not a babe."

"Tell you a secret, Tratha?" Bilbo said idly, flicking his friend in the leg. "You're still young in comparison to me."

He could feel the other studying him, quietly stumped. He did not offer anything more, though.

"Not possible," the Ranger said after a moment.

"'Tis. But I cannot tell you how, yet. I really shouldn't have told you that at all. But..."

"But?" Tratha questioned, crease marring his face.

"Call it a trade," Bilbo decided, shrugging. "A secret in exchange for good advice."

Bilbo could feel the Man's confusion. He hummed to himself a little, though, in satisfaction. He hadn't fixed anything yet, but some things were clicking into place.

"What advice have I apparently given?" Tratha asked after a moment.

Bilbo considered his answer, mulling it over in his own mind, still chewing the thought process himself.

"A thing," he started, thinking aloud, "is only really as important as one says it is. I and a hundred others could spread the word across all of Middle Earth of this rock," he picked a broken jagged piece of rubble from the floor. "We could tell tales of the great power it had, how important it was, and truly, it could become one of the most important objects in all the lands. But it is still a rock." 

He hefted the rock in his hands a few times before tossing it aside, sighing as he settled against the wall again.

"Truly, there are things that _are_ very important, though, aren't there? But even still, though those things may be the making of the future of our lands, or the end of all life as we know it, part of their power still comes from how much importance we place in them. How much of ourselves we are willing to sacrifice for them. But haven't we lost already, when we sacrifice too much?"

"Lost what? Sacrificed what, Bilbo?" Tratha whispered, but Bilbo wasn't really listening, wasn't really speaking to Tratha. 

"If I let this thing, this important thing, come before what is truly important, have I lost? Will I fail before I even begin? Frodo gave it all. He gave every little part of him, til he was swallowed up by it all, til no life on this land could bring a spark of light to his soul. And it wasn't good enough. I'm sort of angry about that, actually. He gave everything, and it wasn't enough. But maybe that was why, maybe it was _too_ much. Maybe it wasn't a victory, after all. Is that my lesson? Is that what I must learn?"

"Who is Frodo? I do not understand, Bilbo," Tratha tried, but Bilbo waved a hand tiredly, slumping back a moment, eyes falling shut.

"It could be the opposite, I suppose. Perhaps Frodo is my lesson, and I must learn to sacrifice truly everything. It could be so. The very heart of me rejects the idea, my spirit bristles in defence against the possibility. I guess I shall not know, not truly, until I get there."

Bilbo's attention snapped to the bewildered Ranger gazing at him and he smiled. 

"In the mean time, though, the most important thing in the world is that grizzly old thing with the big nose and the beautiful eyes. And no matter what comes after, by Eru Ilúvatar, he will have the memories of how important he is to me. Despite those other things that may require attention later on. Excellent advice, dear Tratha." 

"I... have no idea what just happened," Tratha said slowly. "Could you go over that again?"

"Live in the moment, dear fellow," Bilbo waved a hand. "Bad will come, but enjoy what you have now. I have a _Thorin_. What do you have?" 

Tratha gaped a moment, taking in the sincere innocent gaze of the little Hobbit. There was _so much_ he did not understand right now.

"My brothers?" he answered slowly, unsure. "My mother and my aunts and cousins and the woman I would call wife. They are important."

"Now you're getting it," Bilbo hummed in satisfaction. 

The two fell silent again, watching as Balin and Dwalin started bickering quietly. If Balin truly had lost Dwalin's favourite knife, there was likely to be one heck of a fist fight.

"I don't suppose you know," Bilbo asked suddenly, "what body of beings were spread across the abandoned plains of Minhiriath? Is there trouble coming from behind us?"

Tratha, in his surprise at the unexpected question, could not help a bark of amusement from escaping, and across the room, Talli -who Bilbo had not even noticed had arrived back- shot him a rather bemused look.

"You could have saved us all a lot of trouble if you had trusted us, Bilbo Baggins. We have already had this discussion with your Dwarf. I am amazed you slept through it honestly, with how loud the discussion became."

"I can imagine," Bilbo huffed. "Alright, lay it all on me."

"The ones currently dwelling amongst the plains are Dúnedain. A gathering of all the Rangers of the North and our families. We have been without leader for some few years now, when our Chieftain was shot down by Orcs. His son is very young, he resides amongst the Elves of Rivendell for now, raised by Lord Elrond himself, as all our Chieftains are. For now, our decisions are made by coming together as a group every few years. No other beings claim the lands of Minhiriath, truly, most fear the place, so... it is a place to stop a while."

"Oh," Bilbo said faintly. 

"Mmm, all that time you spent squirreling about along the river was rather pointless. Especially since, if you had asked, any of my people could have told you that Tharbad was no longer a safe crossing. The town flooded quite badly during the Fell Winter; it drove the last of the townsmen away, downed the last of the bridge, changed the water flow, made this place dangerous to bother with. We tamped a better ford, some years ago, a days ride downstream. If you had only _asked_ -"

"Oh, but then I would have missed the delightful experience of being drowned," Bilbo sighed. "And I have not forgotten what Glóin said yesterday. Forced the breath back into my lungs. Don't think I didn't notice that apparently you _kissed_ me."

"Oh sweet merciful makers," Tratha whispered. "Keep your voice down! That husband of yours will murder me dead if you keep talking like that. Stop your giggling!"

"Can't," Bilbo gasped. "Oh, your face! Don't worry yourself, Thorin will remain grateful, I'll make sure of it."

"Right up until he murders me and dumps my body in a ditch," Tratha muttered, flapping one disgruntled hand in Bilbo's direction.

"Oh, relax. He likes you, honestly."

"He loathes me," Tratha muttered, slouching.

"If I hated you, I would not trust you so easily with my husband," Thorin said, suddenly crouching down beside them as if from nowhere and Bilbo jumped.

"How did you sneak up on me, you terrible dwarf? You'll scare the marrow right out of my bones doing that!"

Thorin favoured him with a look that was all repressed humour and a fair amount of smugness and Bilbo sighed.

"As long as you're here, I need to talk to you."

"That sounds ominous," Thorin said, raising an enquiring eyebrow.

"It certainly should. Tratha, I would be elsewhere."

"Don't have to tell me twice," Tratha said, almost leaping from his place in his haste to leave them to it.

"Take the rest of this lot with you," Bilbo called after him, and Thorin sighed.

"I'm in trouble, aren't I?" he said to nobody in particular, and swivelled to face the rest of the Company. "Get the ponies loaded. We'll be out shortly."

Thorin watched his kin shoot him looks of varying degrees of amusement as they all filed out, and slid down to sit against the wall next to Bilbo.

"What did I do?"

"I love you," Bilbo said, leaning his head back against the wall with a sigh.

"Oh dear, what _did_ I do?"

"No, Thorin. I _love_ you. That's it."

He could feel Thorin staring at him, but he closed his eyes and breathed deep, absently flexing his shoulders. Between a Wizard, a bunch of over-protective Dwarrows and a couple of fretting Men, he did feel pretty good for a Hobbit that had recently drowned, but that did not mean he felt fabulous. Still some tightness. And let's face it, his stress levels were not good.

"And I love you also," Thorin said finally, reaching to take Bilbo's hand in his own. "What brought this on?"

"Just," he shrugged, tightening his own hand on Thorin's. "Something Tratha said. You do know that I love you, yes?"

"Of course," Thorin said cautiously.

"Thorin, after we entered Erebor, the first time? The way you were then?" Bilbo looked at Thorin, watched his husband cringe ever so slightly, his head tilting away from his own, eyes dropping. "When you lost yourself, and it seemed to me as if you had no care in your heart for me at all, when it seemed for those long weeks that you could see only gold and never hear me call for you, when the first time in days that you looked at me, you called me a traitor and a thief-"

"I remember," Thorin interrupted, voice pained. 

"I know you do. But did you know that I did not love you any less than I do now?"

Thorin frowned. 

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Bilbo said, scooting in close enough to lift Thorin's arm and wrap it around himself. "Well. I am trying to tell you, and not doing the best of jobs, that my love for you is not a quantifiable thing. It does not lessen and grow according to your behaviour, and it is not something that must be earned or repented to gain. It is fact. I love you. I lost my heart a little the day a grumpy thing stomped into my Smial and sniffed and called me burglar, and my heart just kept giving itself away to you from then on. I can't take it back. I love you."

"Bilbo-" Thorin started, expression troubled, but Bilbo shook his head and powered on.

"If you want to use the Ring to rule all Middle Earth and turn the sky yellow, I am still going to be hopelessly in love with you. I won't necessarily be happy, but the fact that I love you won't change. If you decide that the new great Durin nation will be a fleet of barely sea-worthy ships with flat bottoms, I will be right there with you talking bilge and mooring, and I will love you. If you want to throw this whole quest in and go back and live in the Blue Mountains and hand a ring back to the thing called Gollum and organise a delivery of fresh goblin and fish for him monthly to keep the little bugger happy and hidden, let somebody else deal with this whole mess later... well. I may have to talk you out of that one, because that plan could very easily go belly up doom us all. The point is, my feelings will not change. I _love_ you."

Thorin stared.

"I'll not let this stupid thing come between us. I will do what we expect is the reason we are here, I will do my very best to see this thing destroyed. But I will not lose you, or what we have, I will not sacrifice my second, and possibly only, chance at happiness with you. 

"I'll not step back from you ever again," he swore, turning to face Thorin. "I will not allow this Ring to make me back away from you again. I love you. I will not allow that to waver."

Thorin sat silent, gaze intent for a long time before he reached up tentatively to brush Bilbo's curls from his face and lean forward to touch their foreheads together.

"Every day, in a thousand different ways, you continue to fill my heart and humble me with the depth of what you gift to me. Every day. Astonishing creature," he finally muttered.

"Keep talking like that and I might kiss you, sir," Bilbo said, smile breaking through at the ever so slight relaxing of Thorin's body at his words.

"My treasure," Thorin crooned. "Beautiful husband of untold wisdom-"

"Oh, now you're just being silly," Bilbo mock frowned, but he let his chuckling husband tug him forward to press their lips together.

"We'd best go join the others, before they come snooping," he said after a minute. "Get this group moving, or we'll never get anywhere."

Thorin stood and helped him rise, but hesitated, rather than making for the doorway.

What?" Bilbo asked him, brushing off his trousers.

"I... I love you, also. You know this? That I would, that I too would... We can go back to the Shire. We do not have to do any of this-"

"I know," Bilbo interrupted, smiling warmly. His silly dwarven husband.

"Good."

"Yes," Bilbo nodded, feeling as if his face was splitting with the force of his grin. He leant up for one more kiss.

"Also," Thorin said, toeing the ground ever so slightly.

"We're taking the Men with us," he told Thorin firmly.

"But, Bilbo-"

"We're taking the Men with us."

Thorin sighed heavily.

"Fine."

***

"And where, exactly, are we going?" Tratha asked, eyebrows raised high and expectant at Thorin, while everybody made ready to mount their ponies.

Thorin scowled.

"We are coming with you," Tratha told him firmly. "You can expect that when Argus is free, he will come after us, also. I promised him that I would make all haste to join you, and guard the little Hobbit. I intend to do so."

"There really is no arguing with him when he's like this," Talli told Fíli and Kíli mournfully. "He just bulls his way on through no matter what anybody says."

"We know exactly what that's like," Kíli said with a delighted laugh. "Sometimes it feels like the only thing our Ma ever says is 'Thorin, No!'."

"Not that it ever does much good," Fíli pointed out.

"So, this will be interesting, then," Talli said, and almost as one, the three turned expectant eyes on Thorin and Tratha. 

Thorin glared back at them a moment before sighing, and Bilbo stifled a somewhat inappropriate giggle.

"We are not following the Old South Road. Instead, we will make way towards the Mountains, across the plains of Dunland," he said, spreading one of his maps on the ground while the others crowded around. "Just south of the ruins of Ost-In-Edhil. There, are passages through the mountains made by Dwarves. They are hidden, narrow and go nowhere but through, so I am confident that no foul beasts have made home there. It will significantly reduce our travel time along route."

"And where, exactly, is the final destination?" Talli asked, tilting his head to study the map better.

Thorin sighed, rolling his head around on his shoulders. Talli made him feel like Fíli and Kíli made him feel. Like he had not enough eyes to be watching for their mischief, and not enough years to save with all that they kept scaring off his life expectancy.

"Lothlórien," he admitted. "The Golden Woods. Once through the passes, we should be not far from the Nimrodel. We make for the river and follow it to a decent place of crossing, and make our way through the Elvish woods until we are no doubt captured, and taken before the Lady of the Woods."

"I was right," Tratha said. "When I heard you speak of a Witch, you were speaking of Galadriel of Lorien."

"Yes," Thorin said shortly.

"It's a long trip."

"Two weeks at an easy pace, maybe a little more," Thorin admitted.

"May I see your map?" Tratha asked, holding out a hand. Thorin passed it over reluctantly.

"What do Dwarrows want with an Elvish seer?" Halaron asked with no small amount of disbelief.

"Who knows," Glóin huffed, shrugging when the Men turned to look at him. "None but Thorin and his little halfling there know _why_ we are travelling half across the green land to see a witch. And for some reason, they are reluctant to share."

The eyes of all the heavily expanded Company swivelled to stare at Thorin and Bilbo, and they both shrugged.

"Where exactly along the mountains do we need to go?" Tratha asked Thorin, rolling his eyes when Thorin peered at him suspiciously. A jab from a Hobbity elbow made Thorin straighten and point, and Tratha hummed.

"I assume you wanted to follow the river as far as we could?"

"We will need to keep the ponies watered," Thorin said with a nod.

"There are streams that branch down from the river here," he pointed to the map, "and here, and there is a tapped abandoned well down _here_. We could cut cross country to the where the Glanduin meanders down here, follow along for a time to _here_ , and then cut cross country to the well, and then down to the passes."

"You are certain?" Thorin asked, taking note of the positions Tratha had indicated. If he was right, it may be quite a boon to travel with Rangers.

"I am. The route would save us several days. If you are agreeable?"

"We are," Bilbo said firmly, and Thorin scowled for a moment before nodding his agreement. 

"Will you tell me why Dwarves are visiting Elves in exchange?" Tratha asked mildly and Thorin's scowl returned in force.

"Whatever reasons there are for our little expedition," Gandalf interrupted, "none here is obligated to this journey, and is quite welcome to leave if they are disinclined to travel without the knowledge of the who, the wheres and the whys. None the less, for those of us unafraid of the unknown, we should best be on our way, or we will never reach our destination," Gandalf finished with an air of finality that had most of them straightening and mounting their ponies in short order. Thorin, however, took his time rolling up his map and stashing it away on his person. 

"You, too, are not obligated to our journey," he told Gandalf in an undertone. "You have taken all changes in our plans quite easily. One would think you'd have been on your way by now, since we don't seem to be jumping to do as you originally bid."

Gandalf hummed at him a moment, eyeing the strangely silent Bilbo standing at Thorin's back.

"There is great change coming, great events to shape the world. I would like to remain amongst those whom seem to be shaping into the key figures in coming events. That, and I do find you both so very entertaining," Gandalf finished with a chuckle, toddling off to his horse.

Thorin and Bilbo exchanged identical looks of long suffering.

"Wizards," they chorused.

***

"So," Bilbo said tentatively as he pulled along the two Rangers he was unfamiliar with. "I don't believe we have had a chance to be introduced. I'm Bilbo."

The Ranger closest to him was the Woman. Her hair drew his eye, as it was rare to see a woman of man with hair hacked very very close to her head, and she glared at him when he looked at her. The other was a Man who was so, so... _long_ looking that Bilbo was certain he would be as tall as Beorn, though he was more lanky, or wiry, all ropy tendon over lean muscle. He leaned around to grin at Bilbo through a patchy bedraggled beard, though, and Bilbo relaxed.

"Well met, Mr Baggins! I am Túrin."

Bilbo thought for a moment, eyes narrowing.

"Túrin, as in Narn i Chîn Húrin?" he asked cautiously. Túrin nodded with a wide smile full of enthusiasm.

"Me ma loved the idea of her son being named after a dragon slayer from the old tales."

Bilbo tilted his head doubtfully.

"As I recall, Túrin brought wrath and ruin pretty much everywhere he went. And he married his sister."

" _Accidentally_ , he accidentally married his sister."

“And he died by his own sword” 

“Indeed,” conceded Túrin, “although some would say there was honour in that.” 

Bilbo wondered if Thorin would agree with this; Dwarves seemed to set more honour in dying in battle. Perhaps it might be amusing to discuss some of the Older Lays with his husband some time. Thorin was terribly handsome when worked up and righteously indignant. For now he merely nodded at his new acquaintance.

"And despite all else, he _did_ kill a dragon."

"He did," Bilbo conceded, nodding. 

"This is Ren, by the way."

"Wren?" Bilbo said slowly, glancing over the woman who had so far been ignoring him. "As in the bird?"

The stocky Woman turned in her saddle and regarded him silently, one brow raised.

"No," she said, turning back to the path ahead.

"Don't mind her, Master Baggins. Her face always looks like that."

Ren's fist lashed out and Túrin swayed in his saddle, moaning dramatically about spousal abuse.

"Spousal? You are married?" Bilbo asked, perking up in his saddle. What an odd couple!

"He wishes," Ren said with a loud derisive snort.

"My heart belongs to no other," Túrin told him with a lusty sigh. "It will beat on forever more to the pulse of my love for her. One day, she shall accept my proposal and I shall marry her that very minute. Until then, she cruelly uses me for my body while rejecting my tender affections."

Ren's fist lashed out again, and Túrin laughed, dodging and grabbing the flying fist and kissing it dramatically, before she managed to knock him off his saddle and into the mud churned by the ponies ahead. Túrin let out a boisterous cackle from his position sprawled across the ground, and Bilbo might have worried if not for Halaron turning and rolling his eyes with an air of one of continued tested patience at the sight, and riding on as normal.

"So, Master Baggins," Ren said, startling him

"Bilbo, please," he said, and she nodded.

"Bilbo. I understand you, too, are saddled with a hapless idiot of a man."

"You mean Thorin? Yes, he can be quite unfortunate. Terrible sense of direction and a penchant for self-pity," Bilbo said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "Unfortunately, he's also sweet and good hearted and ridiculously handsome. What is a Hobbit to do but marry him?"

"Excellent attitude," Túrin said, riding up beside Ren again. "When one meets a wonderful, handsome man, one should marry them."

"I shall keep that in mind for the day I meet a man that is handsome," Ren said with a glower in his direction, and Túrin swooned in his saddle.

"So cruel, my love," he said mournfully.

"Handsome, am I?" Thorin asked, abruptly riding up behind Bilbo, who jumped.

"Passable," he sniffed, and exchanged commiserating eye rolls with Ren.

So maybe things weren't going _too_ badly.

****

They made good time the first day, though they had to travel for longer than they would have to arrive at the stream Tratha had told them of. They had not had a fire going until after dark, so the meal Bilbo had helped Talli and the lads make was simple, and a little rougher than Bilbo would have liked, though their band of travellers found no fault, and seemed happy enough to sit as a group before the fire and exchange tall tales. Halaron and Túrin seemed to be trying to out-do each other in most terrifying creature encounter stories, and Bilbo laughed when on coming back from a, ahem, bathroom break, Ren had Túrin in what seemed to be a relaxed yet effective head-lock, allowing Halaron to enthusiastically tell his tale of a water creature with many, many legs that had tried to eat him.

"So, I'm handsome, hmm?" Thorin said, low and rough behind him, and Bilbo shivered.

"Passable," he replied breathily, and let Thorin lead him back away from the fire.  
***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Everyone keep clapping for Beta-Beth, she's putting in the hard yakka for all these chappies to come on out.
> 
> Also, amazing people, if you are one of those strange inexplicable wonders that follow me on tumblr, give us a wave so I can fangirl all over you. Also, I like people and am fascinated by those willing to talk to me, so feel free to come and chat but please be aware I may chatter back at you with strange enthusiasm because PEOPLE TALKING TO ME EEP!


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you are all super lovely people for sticking with this long-arse piece of ridiculousness. I adore each and every one of you. I really really do.
> 
> Clap, everybody, for Beta-Beth's EXTREME patience dealing with me and my made up words. I don't doubt that there is always a fair whack of screaming into pillows when beta-reading for me, and probably a stiff drink after. Or at least a calming cup of tea. Eep?
> 
> More soon, though lovely Heyerette has me tapping tentatively at a Christmas Bagginshield to fortify us all after what promises to be a devastating final movie....

Argus caught up with them three days into their journey across Dunland, appearing just as they were settling for an evening meal, and Bilbo was pleased to see his Dwarrows welcome the Man quite warmly. Well, for Dwarves, anyway. The Men, too, seemed to be quite pleased to see him, and Bilbo was quite surprised by what he had seen of the reunion between Halaron and Argus.

"Are they...?" Bilbo had discreetly murmured to Ren, who had taken one look and snorted loudly.

"They're still pretending they aren't, but we all know they completely _are_ ," she'd muttered back with a roll of her eyes. 

Bilbo was pleased to discover a firm friend in Ren. She was quite often grumpy and caustic, but Bilbo was more than used to that sort of behaviour in his dearest, so it was simple enough to ignore, and her wicked understated sense of humour was well worth it, as was the hilarious drama generated by the way she was steadfast in her refusal to show Túrin her favour in any way outside of the bedroll.

Túrin himself was a complete hoot, and got along terribly well with the Fellowship of Reds, granted status despite his straggly jet black mane, it seemed, and when he wasn't bothering Ren with pining looks and extravagant proposals, he was swapping horrible jokes with Bombur, Nori and Glóin and volunteering for watch duty with them.

Talli was Fíli and Kíli stuck in the body of a Man and were all fast friends now, and Bilbo had thought fondly of a certain set of Hobbit boys that would have fit most comfortably in their little band, whispering and causing mischief the way lads were wont to do but ultimately proving their mettle. Despite Thorin's insistence that he absolutely did not want the Rangers with him, the whole Company -Men and Wizard included- had seen the way he had taken to fussing and herding _three_ willful boys around instead of two. He'd been quite defensive when Bofur had been silly enough to point his treatment of the young Man out, right up until Bilbo had expressed his most sincere _admiration_ at such wonderful parenting skills- quite the appealing trait to a Hobbit. After that, he had not minded Talli taking to calling him 'Papa Mister Thorin' in a sing-song voice, as often as he could get away with it. Had not minded quite so much, anyway.

Between Túril's attempts to catch Ren's attention, Ren's sly commentary on Halaron and Argus' attempts at pretending their relationship was purely professional, and Talli and the lads causing enough trouble to have Dwalin, Thorin and Tratha lined up and bellowing at the lot of them, the journey across the planes was pleasant, and the eight day journey was easy enough.

Really, that should have told him something.

Bilbo was pretty sure he had, sometime in the last few weeks, berated himself for failing to expect the worst. And yet somehow, he had again failed to expect horrible horrible happenings at any moment.

When would he learn?

"Definitely Warg tracks," Halaron said seriously. "All over the place. Some a day or so old, many older. They have come through here, a scout pack, several times. Why, I have no clue, but they have."

"How can you tell?" Bilbo asked, leaning to peer at the tracks Halaron and Argus had led them to. Halaron shot him an amused glance.

He was curious. Nothing wrong with that.

"These tracks here are recent, smudges in dry dirt, but the wind is already sweeping them away, so, very recent. Those farther into this gully are deeper, clearer, made in moist loam, so after the rains when the ground dried some, became more solid, and some are deep and sliding, as if done in slushy mud, so sometime during the rains. Anything from before that was wiped out in the storms. So I cannot say if this is a regular route for them, or if they are down here for a reason."

"Like hunting someone," Thorin sighed, sharing a look with Bilbo.

"No."

"Bilbo, it is possible."

"We've been _careful_ , how could he possibly know that you are out and travelling? Or where we would be?"

"Fate?" Thorin shrugged. "Destined to have to deal with the bastard."

"But- but he-" Bilbo managed before he bolted off his pony and behind a bush to be loudly and violently ill. 

Thankfully, it was not a prolonged bout of sickness, and he had already backed away to lean against a tree, sliding down to the rough bark to sit on his own heels to catch his breath by the time Thorin and half the Company was beside him. 

"Sorry," he said, leaning back and resting his head on the bark behind him. Thorin nudged him with a water skin and he gratefully lifted it to gulp down a few mouthfuls of water, while Óin fussed that it would make him sick again.

"No, I'm fine," he insisted, when Gandalf started the hand waving and the muttering that always made Bilbo feel like Gandalf was looking _inside_ his body and examining all his bits. "Just a particularly bad memory reared its head for a moment."

"That must have been some memory," Dori muttered, and Bilbo shrugged, heart beat thumping hard for a moment. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching a tentative hand for Thorin. His husband did not disappoint, and took his hand gently, pressing one lingering kiss to his knuckles.

They both knew what memory had assailed Bilbo so suddenly.

"Everybody back to the ponies," Thorin ordered, and helped Bilbo to rise, tucking him in close under his arm. The assembled Dwarrows and Men all grumbled a bit, but Gandalf poked at Óin with his staff until they all started to move back to their odd little caravan, and left Thorin to lead Bilbo slowly back to the ponies.

"I was hoping we wouldn't have to deal with him," Bilbo admitted in a very small voice. "A-" He took another breath and straightened. "Azog. I was hoping I might have you safely tucked into Erebor before we had to deal with him this time."

"We'll not be safe from him, not ever, not anywhere, until he's dead," Thorin said flatly. Bilbo shuddered, fighting the bile rising in the back of his throat again.

"Please, do not-" he cut himself off sharply and gasped a second, and Thorin wrapped him tight in thick arms, pressing apologetic snuffles into his hair.

"I am alive," Thorin said firmly. 

"He killed you," Bilbo said dully, a shudder running through him.

He did," Thorin admitted. "But, I am alive, and here, and I will not rush so foolishly into a confrontation with that beast again. I promise. I will not give him opportunity again."

"You had better not," Bilbo said, voice wavering. "Else I'll be most cross with you."

"Anything but that!" Thorin moaned dramatically, pressing another kiss to his curls.

"I know that Dwarrow never back away from a fight, but this once, love..."

"This once?" Thorin asked, brow raised.

"Mayhap this once, we can run with our tails tucked between our legs?" 

"Mayhap," Thorin said with a crooked smile. "If it would make you feel better, we can run like Melkor is chasing us across the desert."

"Oh good," Bilbo sighed in relief, tugging at Thorin. "We should get started on that, then."

"Absolutely," Thorin agreed easily, ready to agree to anything to assuage Bilbo's fears somewhat, and if it meant pushing everyone to the tunnels that were so close as it was, then he could do that. 

Especially if _he_ was lurking about somewhere. It really was within all their best interests to keep Bilbo well away from the crazy homicidal Orc with a grudge.

"Mount up," he roared at the Company, letting Bilbo hurtle himself up onto Thistle. "We make for the tunnels before nightfall."

"You think we can make them today?" Argus asked doubtfully.

"It's that or wait to see if whatever made those tracks catches up with us tonight," Thorin said, with a wave towards the damning Warg tracks. The Man cast a look at the churned, dried mud riddled with claw marks, and then to the great mountains looming ahead and nodded.

"If we ride hard til night, we might make it."

"We’d best ride hard, then," Thorin grinned, spurring his pony forward.

****

They had made it, in the end, though not by nightfall. 

Bilbo sighed and sank a little farther into the cold rock wall behind him, trying, and failing, to still his body. If it wasn't so damnably _cold_ he might have some hope, but the chill was working its way quite relentlessly through all his warm layers and deep into his bones. None of the others were complaining, though, not even appearing to be fighting the shivers he was, so he kept his peace and waited for Thorin to decide if he was on first watch or not.

It was far too late to be working their way _into_ the tunnels, even though Bilbo was wondering if it may be somewhat warmer inside, out of the wind. It had been quite dangerous to continue their trek up into the foothills of the mountain when the sky was already fading to darkness, but Thorin had insisted they would be better able to defend themselves up here, and BIlbo was inclined to agree with him -none had argued, at any rate, and they all knew better than Bilbo did in these sorts of matters. Unfortunately, they weren't _inside_ the tunnels, since that may be a whole 'nother danger, and one should be rested for that trek itself, but they were resting in the entrance, with nothing but steep cliff and a narrow track leading up to them for the night. The entrance to the tunnel, Ori had assured him, was opened -and closed- through simple Khuzdul, so even if something came in the night that could not be held off, they could escape to the tunnels and close them behind themselves. They would be fine.

Unfortunately, staying safe tonight also meant no fire.

It was just so _cold_.

Great bodies plonked themselves down around him, and Bilbo almost moaned at the warmth radiating from the beings squishing up against him.

"What are you doing?" he demanded -quite weakly, he could tell from his own voice, but he couldn't really bring himself to care, when arms tucked coats behind him, and yanked blankets over his legs.

"We could see you shivering from all the way over there, Auntie," Kíli admonished, waving one dramatic arm. "Uncle is going to take first watch with the Men, though, so we volunteered to come and keep you warm!"

"Uncle was quite concerned," Fíli said with a grin, tucking himself further around Bilbo, and dragging Kíli closer. "His little Hobbit looked miserable."

"And I'm on second watch, and I like cuddles, so I'm joining in!" Talli said exuberantly, curling around Bilbo's other side, and throwing an arm over the lot of them. "Papa Mister Thorin can take my place when we switch."

"Troublemakers, the lot of you," Bilbo mumbled, sinking into the lovely puppy pile of heat they had created about him. "Why do I put up with you?" 

"You adore us. We're your favourite nephews," Kíli said confidently.

"You're my only nephews," Bilbo said half-heartedly, but all three of the buggers just grinned and settled in to sleep around him, snuffling and sighing dramatically.

"I'm sorry I sicced them on you," Thorin said, crouching down in front of him.

"I shall have my revenge," Bilbo said amicably, smiling from his place amongst the limbs, extracting and reaching one imploring hand out. Thorin took it in his giant warm paw, and squeezed gently.

"I'll join you in a few hours," Thorin reassured him, squeezing his hand again. Bilbo clutched back hard for a second before relaxing.

"I have Dwalin, Balin and Dori, as well as Argus and Tratha on guard with me. Talli, Túrin and Ren will take guard with the Reds for second half. Everything will be fine."

"Heavy watch for the night," Bilbo said quietly.

"Just being cautious," Thorin said, squeezing once more, before letting go of his hand. "All goes well, we'll be in Lothlorien in a few days, and we can all catch up on some sleep then."

"I can help with watch, you know," Bilbo said tartly as Thorin stood.

"I absolutely know that," Thorin assured him, "but I need your keen hearing fresh for tomorrow. Sleep, my Hobbit, you are clear worn out."

Bilbo humphed as Thorin strolled over to sit with Dwalin, Orcrist out and resting in his lap. As if he could so easily sleep knowing that bloody Azog may be out there.

"Sleep, Auntie Hobbit," Talli murmured into his shoulder, before proving himself pure evil and starting to hum, low and soothing, and Bilbo shut his eyes with a sigh.

The entire world was against him.

****

The tunnels were _miserable_.

They were narrow and just barely tall enough for the Men to walk comfortably- well, all but Túrin, who was just a tad too tall, and had to walk quite hunched and cursing, lest his head bang against the low hanging rock. The ponies had taken quite a lot of persuading to be led down into the dark, and were travelling more than a little nervously, biting and whickering with tension as they moved. At least the passages seemed to be as they had hoped: completely unoccupied by anything living. Thorin had told him that nothing of the great kingdom of Khazad-dúm had extended this far south, so there was nothing that Orcs or Goblins could have tunnelled up from accidentally, but their luck in the past did not stop them from proceeding with a large amount of trepidation.

It felt like they had been moving for hours in this small space, and Bilbo was fast approaching the stage where he would begin screaming and never stop. The Dwarrows, apparently, could see just fine in these tight, dark conditions, which of course they could, they were _Dwarves_ , but Bilbo was finding it equally unfair that the Rangers seemed to have no trouble with placing their feet well, while Bilbo stumbled with every second step, even with the odd little glowing lantern Bofur had appeared with and hung from Thistle's tack. It was filled with some sort of paste that the miner had mixed together, and Tratha and Ren both had one on their horses also, though when they had asked what was making them glow, the Dwarrows had all gifted them with unimpressed glares that advised them not to question further.

Ahead, Thorin called a halt - _finally_ \- and Bilbo sank back against the wall of the tunnel gratefully, patting Thistle to calm him when the hinny seemed ready to make his displeasure at the situation known to all.

"Bilbo," Ori called softly from behind him, and tossed him the meat hock making its way down the line. Gratefully, Bilbo nodded in thanks and delved into his pocket for his knife, carving himself off a piece before passing it forward to Dori. A cheese was making its way down the line as well, and Kíli was calling out for takers on the apples, since he was closest. Bilbo rifled through his pack for a Dwarven flatbread, sliding down to sit on the hard cold stone to roll his meat and cheese into his bread and stuff it into his mouth, chewing slowly. 

It was impossible to tell the time in these tunnels, though Bilbo knew that it was easy enough for his Dwarrows, evidenced by their ability to stop just as his tummy was making itself known. It felt like barely any time at all, though, just enough to stuff down his food and have a few sips of the wine skin (perhaps it was not just Bilbo that needed something for his nerves) making its way up and down the line, before Thorin was calling for them to move again, and Bilbo sighed again. The follies of having a husband that was also a leader; Thorin could not be by his side all the time.

He was supposed to be listening out for anything unusual, though Thorin had not been keen on the idea of him near the front. So he was about midway down the line, listening dutifully, though the sounds in these long narrow caverns were echoing and strange, and even nearby sounds had a way of sounding far off, even as all was amplified and echoed back towards them. It confused his poor Hobbity ears, and Bilbo was starting to develop quite the headache.

Nothing to be done, though, but plod along, tugging Thistle and trying to keep him calm, stumble and right himself again and again, press against his Hinny in the dark and try not to think about how there was little breeze in here, yet it was bitterly cold, yet he was _sweating_ , and had no idea how long he had been stumbling along again. It was so dark.

It hadn't seemed long, or rather, time felt rather.... stretched, never ending, so he couldn't really say for sure how long it had been, but they seemed to be halting again already, and Bilbo leaned to bury his face in Thistle's side again, unwilling to face the darkness for one more second, choosing a darkness of his own creation for a moment, let himself pretend that there was light and warmth and fresh air around him, if only he pulled his face away from Thistle's dark fur....

"Bilbo," Thorin said, from right by his ear, and he startled, spinning around.

"Huh?" he managed oh so eloquently, seeing Dori looking back anxiously at him from his place by his pony.

"You weren't answering anybody when called. Are you alright?" Thorin's face was tight and worn, and Bilbo shuddered all over for a moment before sinking forward into Thorin's chest. His husband obliged by sliding his arms up around him, and Bilbo whined a little.

"I am not enjoying this at all," he admitted after a while.

"I don't think any of us are enjoying this," Thorin said wearily, rubbing his hands over Bilbo's arms briskly, Bilbo only just realising he was shivering.

"I thought you Dwarrows would be very comfortable," he mumbled. Thorin snorted.

"These caves are what we call dead rock. They don't speak to us as living mountain does. And these tunnels are... confining, to say the least."

Bilbo knew that time spent standing here was time that they weren't working their way out of these horrible little caverns, but he could not bear to be parted from Thorin's solid bulk for the moment. 

"The only time I really spent in the mountain was after Smaug, last time. And most of that time, I was worrying about you, and spent a good portion of time out by the gate anyway. I left after... well. I left after you were gone. I've never really lived underground the way a Dwarf lives underground."

There was a saying that people used when one expressed worry over the usual issues that pop up in relationships: Love conquers all. Bilbo was of the opinion that people that sprouted those sort of things had never had to deal with the issues that Bilbo had to contend with, after all. Love did _not_ conquer all; it certainly had not conquered madness and war and death. And for seventy nine years, Bilbo had lectured himself many, _many_ times about where exactly he was to go if he were to be reunited with his love upon death. Aule's Halls had been the most likely, and it was _more_ than fair to assume that they would be underground Halls. And that he would be living out _eternity_ in such a place. 

Just because he loved Thorin with every single ounce of his being, didn't mean he didn't have a healthy amount of hesitation when contemplating _eternity_ in an _eternal_ mountain.

"This is nothing like Erebor. This is nothing like the _Blue Mountains_ , and those mountains were cracked and half-destroyed when the west portion of the continent fell into the sea an age ago."

"Really?" Bilbo managed to croak out, hands finding their way under Thorin's surcoat and burrowing quickly into what layers he could, just managing to brush against heated skin, the ever faint pulse of a heartbeat under warm, coarse hair doing just as much to comfort as Thorin's forehead knocking ever so gently against his own, a large hand brushing over the back of his head and resting on his neck, and Thorin's eyes, barely visible in the little pot of light hanging from Thistle's saddle, but clear and concerned and _there_.

"This place, these tunnels, were built in a dark time for us, Bilbo. We first started small, concealed passages as these when we were making war against the Goblins and Orcs beneath. They were used for years for that purpose; marching off to endless battles, desperately carrying our injured and dead away. They are seeped in echoes of years of the misery and despair and desperation of war, of a bloody and ultimately pointless war. They are no good place for a Dwarrow, and certainly not for a Hobbit."

"Oh,"

"I would never make such a home for my Hobbit and I to live," Thorin said, rubbing their noses together, his great beak sliding gently against the softness of Bilbo's smaller rounded nose. "One day soon, we will make us a home in a mountain, and I will show you how it is for Dwarrows to live in a true living mountain. The joy and light and love of the rock, the comforts it has to offer. And if it does not satisfy you, if you cannot stand that life, then we shall make our home in Hobbiton, in the home your father built. I will be content," he insisted when Bilbo's face turned hesitant. "I am capable of contentment in such a life, and great joy if you are there with me."

Bilbo slumped, eyes falling shut as he pressed his face against Thorin's, ran his nose down into Thorin's beard and hid his eyes against the warmth of Thorin's cheek. 

He was being ridiculous. Letting this place upset him so. Allowing old worries to bother him in the midst of very important affairs!

"I am a silly old thing," he whispered, smiling when he felt the chuff of air from Thorin's chuckle ruffle his curls.

"Not long now," Thorin promised. "We are not far to the end. Just a little longer, and we shall be free of this place. All will be well."

"You realise you just jinxed us," Bilbo muttered, and Thorin chuckled again. 

"Soon," he promised, pressing one brief damp kiss to his forehead and stepping back, sliding sideways back to the front of the line with one last look over his shoulder at Bilbo.

***

It probably hadn't taken long for them to break free of the cramped, horrid tunnels, but Bilbo was not sure, as he had spent the entire time trusting to Thistle to guide him, desperately conjuring up all the images of a happy and long life with Thorin after their quests were complete, forcing his imagination to supply him with suitable distraction to their current plight. 

Túrin let out one long, exaggerated groan of relief the moment he left the caves, and Bilbo laughed, high and relieved at the feel of the wind and light upon his face. Very late afternoon, almost evening, by the look of the sky, the sun already kissing the tree-lined horizon. The whole day gone in those tunnels, but oh, they were out, they had made the pass in a day, and no climbing of the mountains to do so! There was still the treacherous climb down, but it would not be a long one, and they could surely tackle it in the morning, the space where they were similar to that of the camp of the night before, back at the other end of the terrible tunnels.

Another step of the journey, another small milestone accomplished. Bilbo knew his jubilance came mostly from the freedom of escaping the mountain caverns, but oh, he could dance! 

Thorin's eyes met his from where he was talking to Argus, and he grinned knowingly at Bilbo, eyes sparkling. 

"Camp here for the night!" Thorin called, quite unnecessarily, really, as Balin was already herding the lads to make a place by the still-open entrance to the tunnels for the ponies, and Bofur and Bifur were already arguing about the dinner again. Ori and Ren were chatting while brushing pebbles away from the place that would no doubt be where they laid their rolls for the night, and Túrin and Tratha were setting traps with Glóin and Nori.

Really, he should be helping with the set-up, at least rescuing the night's rations from the arguing Ur cousins, but he was quite overwhelmed by contented relief, revelling in the last of the sun's rays and watching as his family bustled about him.

"All well?" Thorin asked quietly, coming to prop himself against the rock face beside Bilbo, taking Thistle's reins from his hand and passing him back to Kíli, who led the beast to where they were setting the ponies for the night.

Bilbo hummed, leaning a little into Thorin's warm bulk.

"If it wasn't for the fact that the only place that would afford us any privacy was those awful tunnels, I would drag you off to show you how impressive I find your leadership abilities," Bilbo said, eyes falling shut as he turned his face to the sky with a contented sigh.

Thorin was silent a long time, so long that Bilbo eventually peeled one eye open to peer at his husband to check if his Thorin had fallen asleep standing up. 

He was not sleeping.

"It is not fair to say such things when I can do nothing in retaliation," he finally said roughly, shifting in place.

"Say what things?" Bilbo asked with sweetly faked innocence. "Speak of how magnificent I find you, or how awed I am by your majesty? How eagerly I would go to my knees to show my appreciation for such a fine husband you have proven yourself to be?"

"If you continue to misbehave, you will suffer the consequences," Thorin warned, and Bilbo giggled, wrapping his arms around Thorin.

Thorin wormed one of his arms free with a grunt, slinging it over Bilbo's shoulders and heaving a tired sigh.

"Almost to Lothlorien already," he mused. "Feels like we have been travelling forever, and yet for no time at all."

"I know exactly what you mean," Bilbo agreed, making no move to cover his mouth as he yawned wide and long. He was too tired for politeness. "I have been trying to remember if it felt like this the last time we travelled, or if it is because of how we have done this before."

"So have I," Thorin admitted, "And I cannot really decide."

"Neither can I."

"Does it matter?" Thorin asked, curiously.

"Not really," Bilbo said, sniffing as he realised Bofur had managed to burn the spices. Bifur was already berating him for it, so he let them be. "Just one of those things, I think. We will wonder."

"We are cycling through shorter, more frequent watch shifts tonight," Thorin told him, brushing a curl from Bilbo's forehead. "But I would prefer that you rest again tonight. We have made the tunnel crossing and we are safe for the night. We are so close to Lorien, just rest tonight."

"Alright," Bilbo agreed, smiling into the darkness that was beginning to set in around them. Sleep tonight. All was well.

*** 

It was in the early hours of the morn, before the sun rose, that they heard the howls.

***

They had packed and left as soon as the sun had risen in the sky, and Thorin and Argus and Gandalf were all pushing them hard, determined to travel as long as they could before the sun set and the Wargs could hunt again. They could, Gandalf told them, travel in daylight, both Wargs and Orcs, though they generally preferred not to. 

"Dark things prefer the dark," he said, saddling his horse quickly. "It depends on how desperate to hunt they are."

Bilbo had exchanged one long panicked look with Thorin before securing the last of his packs onto Patience and hooking her to Thistle.

"We need to move," Thorin had said, and now here they were, riding the ponies hard towards the tree line separating them from the River Nimrodel. 

The farther they got from the mountains, and the closer to the realm of the elves, the safer they would be.

They stopped to rest the ponies by midday, and all of them ate tiredly, sitting under the unrelenting sun on the bare plain, the forest line looking far too distant for comfort. They had a fair way to go, it would take them tomorrow as well to reach the trees and the river, and Bilbo felt something close to dread bubble in the pit of his gut. He wasn't quite sure how he knew, but he did. They were being hunted. Azog was hunting them once again, and he would find them. And out here, there was nowhere to hide.

Thorin appeared beside him, hunkering down beside his hunched form a moment. 

"We'll make it," Thorin said firmly, pushing at Bilbo's waterskin until he raised it to drink and then standing to go and speak to Argus again.

***

They stopped that night on the highest point of a rolling hill. Really, it did not give them a terrible lot of warning, should something come in the night, but they had travelled as far as the ponies could manage, and there was nowhere else. They set what traps they could and ate cold rations without fire and set out a new watch, and this time Thorin had no say in whether Bilbo would sleep the night or not. Half of them would sleep the first half of the night, the second half the rest. It would be an uneasy night, and not the optimal for staying alert and ready, but it was better than nothing.

All night long, the howls were their companions, distant back across the way they came, but coming ever closer.

They left before the sun rose.

The day was a blur of tireless riding, exhaustion beginning to creep across Bilbo's vision already, and he slid off Thistle gratefully when Thorin called a halt hours later.

"We cannot go on like this much longer," Balin said, while Bilbo felt his legs wobble. He sank down onto the grass and fumbled with the skin that Glóin handed him. Wine. He gulped at it greedily. "The Hobbit can barely stand," Balin finished, and Bilbo raised his head to take in the group around him. 

It was not as if Hobbits were a weak sort of being. Truly, Hobbits were hardy creatures, and adaptable too. Dwarrows, he knew, were like the stone they were carved from: steady and durable in all circumstances, and the Rangers of the North were enduring through necessity and long-acquired habits. While Bilbo was still very much a person of comfort, there really should be no reason that he was the only one half dead on the grass from exhaustion. But he was.

Granted, the others all did _look_ worn out, but none were in the straights that he apparently was. And until now, Bilbo was not even aware of the disparity, though it seemed that his comrades were very much the contrary.

"We only have to make it to the tree line," Thorin said from Bilbo's side, and Bilbo startled, not even noticing that Thorin had crouched beside him on the grass and was holding his hand. "If we get to the trees, the threat of the Elves of Lorien will be enough to dissuade any Orcish party. It isn't far. Down through this next gully and up into the forest."

"We best hurry, then," Halaron called, racing back to the group. "They are coming!"

Clarity came with the blinding rush of terror, and Bilbo barely needed Thorin hauling him to his feet and shoving him onto his hinny, already readying to gallop and pushing Thorin away to his own mount.

Their path to Lothlórien across the rolling grass plains of what farther South became The Wold, was intersected by one deep, craggy gully. In normal circumstances, they would have gone around it, but time was against them now, and the best way was down and back up again, and who knew? Perhaps it would slow the Orcs down as well.

It didn't.

Bilbo wasn't exactly sure when it started, all he knew was that after a descent that was far too fast for the unsteadiness of the path, and a large dose of pure luck that they had even made it down, then they were in the gully, making their way along the wind to a slope with gentle enough paths to ascend, when Dori's pony barrelled into him and the Dwarf grabbed him and slammed them both to the ground, and the air was thick with arrows.

Someone -or something- screamed, and the Dwarrows were bellowing their Khuzdul war cries, and the Men, too, and there was the sick crunch of weapons on flesh and the sharp howls of the Wargs.

One sound, though, one thing cut through Bilbo's disorientation, a horrible thing from his nightmares he would never forget.

He would never forget that voice. Azog was here.

"Thorin!" he yelled, crawling and groping for his sword. He had to protect Thorin. The one time he had left Thorin alone with that beast, his husband had been murdered. He could do it, he could keep his beloved safe this time!

"Thorin!" he yelled again, rolling and slashing as an Orc appeared beside him. He managed to slice it through the middle, though the damn thing barely noticed. Dwalin did, though, and he finished the job with a quick lop of one of his axed, positioning himself in front of Bilbo.

"Oh, none of that," Bilbo snapped, ducking around to help Dwalin dispose of a leaping Warg, sliding underneath it to stab up into its chest while Dwalin sliced at its maw. It howled and batted at him with one hooked paw, and Bifur appeared, smashing his long pike down into its neck. 

"Auntie!" Kíli called, appearing beside Bilbo as he tried to locate Thorin amongst the bizarrely sudden chaos. "Uncle wants you out of here, we are to take you to safety."

"Oh, I think _not_ ," Bilbo snarled as Fíli made a grab for him. There was no way in this lifetime was he running and leaving Thorin, or the rest of his family, in the middle of _this_. "Where is he?"

"There are too many, Bilbo," Fíli cried, fingers managing to catch on Bilbo's jacket before he could dodge away. "We must leave!"

"I'm not leaving him," he insisted, stabbing out at an Orc that came too close, which Kíli dispatched quickly with sword, spinning with weapon up, scanning around them for more as Fíli grasped Bilbo's arms and forced him to face him.

"Uncle says we are to take you, and what you carry to safety. He says it is important. We made him an oath, Bilbo Baggins, to keep safe what is asked of us. He asks us to guard you and what you carry. You _will_ come with us."

Bilbo was frozen. A battle raged around them, his friends grunting and bellowing, and Bilbo could not be certain that all the screams came from Orcs and not his friends. Thorin was here, with _Azog_ , the one that murdered the very soul of him. He _could not leave_.

And yet. The Ring. The moment stretched, and his hand settled onto his pocket, the world narrowing. What to save. 

At that moment, Bilbo wished more than anything that Thorin did not remember. Perhaps if there had not been the lure of a long, safe life with the one he loved above all others, perhaps this decision would be easy. Perhaps it would be easy to walk away.

Stay or go. Stay or go. 

Stay.

Go.

Azog's laughter echoed against the walls rising about them, and Fíli dragged him away, and Bilbo was frozen.

Stay.

Go.

Make a decision, his brain screamed, make one now, before all is lost and there is no choice to make. Choose, now!

Stay.

Go.

Another arrow spun past him and Bilbo barely saw it pass, too busy wondering.

Stay.

Go.

Fíli and Kíli did, though, and it was not back towards the skirmish behind them that they looked, but forward that they raised their weapons.

"Elves!" Kíli was whooping, though, and Fíli let go of Bilbo long enough for the two Durin's to slam Bilbo between them as dozens of warriors thundered past in a blazing charge, arrows piercing the air with fine precision. 

The Elves were there, and that was fine, but Azog was still somewhere out there, and so was Thorin, and he should leave, he should really leave, but there was no way he could go now. No way that he could leave. Thorin was here, and Azog, and there, there they were, and Azog was laughing and Thorin was so handsome and majestic and Bilbo was going to lose him, because Bilbo was not there to protect him...!

Stay or go. He had taken one step away, and one right back, when one of the Elvish warriors appeared, and he and Thorin attacked simultaneously, dancing around Azog like they had flitted about enemies in such synchronised routine dozens of times before. Azog was frustrated, Bilbo could see, and he took another step towards them, and then stepped back again.

Bilbo spared a moment, though, to be proud of Thorin. His interactions with Azog before had been emotional attacks, grief and revenge prompting the not-strategy of running straight in and attacking head on, and ultimately being easily overpowered when it came to a head to head show of force. But this, this was the great warrior that Thorin truly was, keeping his cool and using his opponent's strength and size against him, moving in quickly and taking the shots he could, which when in concert with the Elvish warrior, were extremely effective. 

Azog was growing frustrated, swinging wildly, and Bilbo saw Thorin falter, just for a moment, and his heart flew into his throat. Another step forward, another step back. Azog was already a great force of evil. Who knew what would become of the world with the Ring on his finger. And that was if he had the strength to keep it from Sauron.

Stay.

Go.

The moment of Thorin's slight slip, though, the Elf was there, swinging his great blade up and flicking it overhead and around, catching Azog along the back of his shoulder, and the Orc bellowed and spun, and Thorin took his chance, darting forward so quickly Bilbo blinked to ensure he has seen right, just as Thorin rammed his sword deep into Azog's side and up, the blade glowing brilliant blue for a moment from the middle of the Orc's chest, Azog clawing at the thing for a moment. And then the light flickered, and the Elf ducked close to lop of Azog's head. 

Dead.

Bilbo gaped.

A quick look around showed that most of the great lot of Orcs that had ridden in with their master were dead, the Wargs too, and the remaining few turned to flee, though the Elves were having none of that, and happily showered the scarpering Orcs in a hail of arrows, till none remained.

Well.

Bilbo could probably stay, then.

Argus was down, but Tratha and Halaron were fussing at him in a way that indicated that the blood layered over his knee was not serious. Ren and Túrin were helping the elves, going from body to body and sinking weapons through the fallen Orcs, ensuring no fallen was feigning death. His Dwarrows looked remarkably unharmed, though Nori was hovering over Óin while the elder wrapped Dori's arm, in such a way as to barely pretend that he _wasn't_ hovering. 

Talli was sitting tiredly with Bofur and Bombur and Balin was patiently allowing Dwalin to check him over, Bifur was talking lowly to Thorin, and the lads had scarpered back to chatter excitedly at Ori and Glóin. Two of the elves were being seen to for injuries, by other elves and Gandalf was hovering over another with his muttering and hand waving, but the lack of urgency was telling, and the rest of them seemed fine.

All safe. All accounted for. Now, if Bilbo could peel his heart off the back of his throat and convince it to slow down enough for him to hear something other than the beating of his own blood rushing, that sure would be helpful. As it was, about all Bilbo was capable of, was stumbling across the blood soaked grass and try not to slip before he could walk into his husband's arms.

"Calm now, love," Thorin said, and his voice abruptly cut through the cacophony of noise in Bilbo's head, leaving him gasping and gripping and more than a little weak in the knees.

"That," he managed. "That was unbelievably lucky."

"I would agree with that," Thorin said, and then he was chuckling. Bilbo wanted to be angry with him, he really did, but all he could do was choke on a few ill-humoured chortles and grip Thorin's furs in a desperate grip.

"My thanks," Thorin said, all of a sudden, and Bilbo straightened and turned, taking in the still-helmeted Elf that had come to Thorin's aid.

"And mine," Bilbo said firmly. "My most sincere thanks for your assistance this day."

The elf chuckled, handing his sword off to another waiting, and removing his helm.

"No thanks required, Master Baggins," Thranduil said, tossing his hair lightly over his shoulder. "After all, the very least I can do for a dear old friend is stop his husband from repeating past mistakes. No matter how unfortunate my dear friend's choice in husband may be."

"Oh, just fucking _perfect_ ," Thorin snarled. 

Bilbo gaped.

****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, er... that happened? 
> 
> *whispers* I have had Thranduil written in since before I started posting this thing. I have been waiting _so long_ for this, I swear. I hopes you are all not too disappointed. *grins*


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am alive. Rough, rough week, but I survived it. Have a chapter.
> 
> Also, Beta-Beth is the magnificent of all magnificent. She has given me an AMAZING idea for a part of this story I was struggling with, and she will love it. Because she WON'T have to whip out the threat of baby-dragons. Beth, you know what I mean.

Previously:

_"Oh, just fucking perfect," Thorin snarled._

_Bilbo gaped._

 

"You _remember_ me," Bilbo gasped, still gaping stupidly at the elf.

"I'm hardly likely to forget you," Thranduil said archly, brushing at the edge of his armour with delicate fingers. Bilbo glared at the ridiculous display of arrogance, opening his mouth to demand an explanation, but Thranduil waved a lazy hand through the air. "Even if I wasn't to remember your astonishing attempts at diplomacy, I would hardly forget standing witness and laying Elven blessings upon the first Hobbit-Dwarf marriage I have ever encountered."

" _You_ were witness to their bond?" Balin spluttered, and Thranduil sniffed dismissively.

"Dreadful event. There wasn't even cake. And the _guest list..._ "

Oh that was quite enough of that.

Over the last seventy-nine years (approximately) of his life, Bilbo had only seen Thranduil sporadically after Erebor, but he had maintained a written correspondence with the other, and so counted himself somewhat familiar with Thranduil's idiosyncrasies (and Bilbo had never _ever_ made issue of Thranduil's consistent use of scented parchment and lilac ink. He was good to his friends that way). His haughty little display was no doubt in response to facing Dwarrows, especially these Dwarrows, and especially here. And _now_ , if Bilbo was correctly reading the circumstances. Especially in response to one Dwarrow in particular, perhaps. Bilbo was not having any of that sort of behaviour, though, as no doubt any minute one of his group would take up arms again and the fight would begin anew when they attacked the Elf King in a fit of righteous Dwarven rage. He huffed a short breath of irritation -Bilbo forced to play the diplomat _again_ \- and marched the short distance to put himself at Thranduil's side.

Elves may be a tall species, however, they grew very long hair, a perfect handhold for a more sensibly sized being, if'n they were looking to make themselves heard clearly. Grabbing a fistful and pulling was the work of a few seconds, and he put his face in very close to Thranduil's startled eyes.

"What. Are. You. _Doing_ here?"

"I thought that would be obvious," Thranduil said, face melting to a petulant frown, and there was his friend, the slightly playful sod under the haughty cold King. "I was looking for you."

***

The Elves -apparently an even split of Thranduil's Mirkwood Elves and Elves of the Golden Wood, though enough alike in dress and manner that Bilbo had no hope of distinguishing the difference yet- had insisted on staying to burn the bodies, and one of their number would be better left a few hours before riding. And so despite much arguing and back and forth between the Elves and Dwarrows and Men, with the frustrated arm waving of one irritated Wizard, the decision was made that they would climb out the gully and camp on the upper edge and make their way to the forest in the morning. Two of the Elves were dispatched for the evening to report back to the Golden Wood and the rest moved to set up a camp, away from the smouldering Orc remains.

There was something about a fight that did things to his Dwarrows. They _swaggered_ after what they called a 'nice little scuffle', all happy little Dwarves with big... egos. Evidently, the Elves deciding to lend a hand had endeared themselves to the Company at least for the moment, so the air of the camp was jovial and relaxed as people moved about with their various chores, eventually settling into little groups and relaxing upon the ground to amicably chatter and rest.

Bilbo left Thorin and his little frowns of thoughtful irritation in Dwalin's capable hands, slipping off to make his way around to Thranduil, who was patiently waiting, perched upon a log off to the side of the camp and observing the folk within it calmly.

It was a simple thing to slide himself up to sit on the log beside the Elven king, and arrange himself neatly. Finding words, however...

They sat silently for quite a while, till the camp had settled. Dwalin had strong-armed Thorin into relaxing on the other side of the camp, and his husband had shot him one resigned look before turning away to listen to whatever had Dwalin waving his hands about animatedly, very plainly saying without words that he was leaving this part of their little jaunt to Bilbo.

"So," he finally said. "How have you been?"

"Quite well," Thranduil said pleasantly, one knee lifting elegantly over the other, hands clasped on top. "Living out my life quietly, for a second time, of course. And yourself?"

Bilbo's breath left his body all at once in one, long, loud huff, almost bending over at the sudden weakness.

"Oh," he started, coughing around the sudden dryness in his throat. "You do remember us."

"Of course," Thranduil said, and nothing else, sitting patiently on his side of the log.

"Who else?" Bilbo asked, slightly hopeful. "Who else is doing this again?"

"Nobody," Thranduil said calmly. "Just the three of us."

"But..."

"I was chosen to aid yourself and your Dwarf. If there are others out there experiencing the same predicament, it has nothing to do with us."

"Aid in what? Why are we here?" Bilbo asked with no small amount of desperation.

"Why do you think? To destroy the Ring."

Bilbo gasped, whole body slumping back, breathing hard. He had known that was it. Of course it was

"Calm yourself, Bilbo, else your husband will come stomping over here to gut me for upsetting you."

"He'll do no such thing and you know it. Honestly," Bilbo sighed. "If he was worried, he'd be over here climbing up in your face, not relaxing with his kin."

Bilbo glanced across at his husband. Having finished their share of the work, Kíli and Fíli had disappeared together for a short time, returning together with a decidedly ‘mellow’ look about them as they settled themselves comfortably either side of Thorin. Kíli leant forward and muttered something to his uncle and Fíli nodded in agreement before looking pointedly first at Bilbo and then back to Thorin. The boys were rewarded by a grunt, a sad shake of the head and a half-hearted cuff around the ears.

Bilbo might have to find some alone time with Thorin at some point. Honestly, Dwarrows and fighting. Completely ridiculous.

They both fell silent for a time, Bilbo frowning at the ground in thought.

Quite honestly, he felt blindsided by this turn of events. _Thranduil._ He hadn't seen that coming. Not that he wasn't glad for another perspective! Just... Bilbo had not expected this.

"Are you not glad?" Thranduil asked curiously, frown creasing his brow. "I thought that you would be ecstatic at the second chance."

"I am!" Bilbo protested. "Believe me I am. I'm just a little..."

"Taken aback?" Thranduil's face was so understanding, Bilbo wanted to break and helplessly weep for a moment, before he took a breath and reined that silly impulse in. Instead he waved one hand about, quite unable to find words, again. Thranduil nodded, though.

"And how is Thorin taking these odd circumstances we find ourselves in?"

Bilbo shrugged, pondering the question.

"He's so different," Bilbo admitted quietly. "Yet, exactly the same. Just... lighter. Like a great load has been taken from his soul. I did not think that death would do that. Not that I am not glad!" he hastened to add when Thranduil quirked one eyebrow at him. "I am! It is good to see him full of life and laughter and love. He is everything that I always knew he was, under the grim determination to see through our quest the first time. I just wonder at it. How something so dire as death can bring him such peace."

On the other side of the camp fire, Thorin talked quietly with Dwalin, Glóin and Bifur, the four of them snickering every few minutes at small jests. Thorin looked up, catching Bilbo's gaze upon him and smiling easily, before Dwalin nudged him and said something that resulted in a quick tussle.

"Time," Thranduil began slowly, "is not a simple thing. While it exists in various forms for the different beings in existence- you think an ant is merely fearless in face of such large beasts as ourselves? No, it merely fails to comprehend us, really, time being such a faster thing for them, and us moving so very slowly by their perception. Time itself though, is still a fixed net of interwoven threads. One soul can not be separated from the net, their 'Time' can not be halted or moved or exist independently to another's. Or so I am given to understand. I, of course, am no expert in such things."

Bilbo stared at the elf a moment, unsure of the relevance to the current topic. "I don't-"

"You, Bilbo Baggins, were always meant to be the bearer of the Ring. Your young cousin, your _nephew_ , was a... back-up plan, if you will. It was always meant to be you. Things would have been different if it had been you."

"How different?"

Thranduil shrugged,

"I do not know, and that was not revealed to me. We perhaps shall discover that this time around. Back to my original point, Mr Baggins."

"Which was?"

"Our Makers cannot interfere with this world. Not anymore. A soul cannot be tampered with whilst living. At Death, though, their soul belongs to the Afters, the place where the Valar reside now."

"I don't understand."

"You set out to sail to the Undying Lands, yes? Despite wanting death for so long, to rejoin your husband in the After, you still allowed your kin and Elrond to convince you to sail."

Bilbo stirred uncomfortably.

"There was nothing in any body of text I could find on the subject to suggest that Aule accepted any other race but his Dwarves to the Halls of Waiting. I had no- I didn't-" Bilbo took a few breaths, eyes shutting as he gathered himself against a pang of guilt. "And believe me, I searched those texts, scoured anything I could get my hands on, desperate for some hope, some reassurance that one day I might be reunited with my Love, but there was nothing. So I asked those I considered more learned in such lore…Gandalf and Elrond had no answers for me. No Hobbit had ever sailed before, and there was no way of knowing whether I would remain _Undying_ , and I had no way of knowing if I would be permitted to see Thorin again in the After if I did die. Add in a good dash of senility and worn-down hopes and dreams and a mind no longer reasoning clearly due to the lingering shadow of the Ring, and yes. I decided to journey with my nephew and my friends. Not that I actually got that far. The last I remember is stopping for the night, due to reach the Havens the next day, and then I was here. I still don't know _how_."

"You died."

Bilbo stared at Thranduil for a long moment. His mouth opened to speak, but the words did not come.

"Elrond was doing a very good job of keeping you alive. But, by chance, you died in your sleep that night. And the Valar took their chance. In the moment of death, there are many things possible. And this was, as I understand it, a very delicate and risky business, but a chance certain parties were willing to take. Why, I... do not know, and we may never know. What I do know, is in the moment of your death, everything that your soul was in that moment was thrown back. And here you are."

"But _why?_ "

"Because you were always fated to carry the One Ring."

"I already _did!_ " Bilbo hissed, slightly hysterical.

"No, you simply possessed it. You failed to carry it. You were dormant. _That_ ," here he pointed at Thorin, now set with pipe and comb, happily seeing to his nephews’ grooming while absently watching Glóin, Dwalin and Bifur playing some fast-paced betting game involving pebbles. Kíli and Fíli were lapping up the attention from their Uncle, leaning into his space like touch-starved puppies. The scene was a calm and happy one, and so at odds with Thranduil's and Bilbo's individual agitation and the serious discussion. " _That_ was always the variable. He was always going to be the deciding factor in what you did with that Ring. It just so happened that the exact right set of circumstances resulted in exactly what happened last time. You did nothing."

Thranduil turned, leaning into Bilbo's space, eyes almost glowing with a fervent conviction.

"Had Azog lived, perhaps you would have sought revenge. Perhaps you would have been influenced by the Ring. Perhaps the world would have fallen to darkness. Perhaps Thorin had lived, but your position at his side would have brought attention to the relic sooner, and a quest to destroy it launched while you were still able. _Something._ But, the exact circumstances left you dormant; his loss made you disconnect from all around you, and the Ring could not gain purchase on a person so apathetic to the world around them. It was always meant to be you. It was just fortunate that your influence on Frodo Baggins made him a decent replacement that the result was good enough. Then. Why it could not remain so, I do not know, that was not revealed to me. Only that it was meant to be you, and the moment of your death resulted in the decision to redo things."

"So, what, it would have been better for me to have fallen to the Ring than do nothing with it at all?" Bilbo demanded incredulously.

"The Ring is... it is a, a _move_. If Middle Earth was a game, it would be the next move. All moves come with Rules and a counter move. To do nothing, or to take too long..." He trailed off and sighed. "I am not privileged to the details. I know only enough to impart to you the importance of not doing nothing. I do not know why the outcome last time around was not good enough. We may never know. We have been chosen as their vessels, and there is no questioning that. We must only do."

"And Thorin?" Bilbo asked through the dryness of his throat. Thranduil smiled something almost like a grin.

"You swore oaths of true devotion before important figures of Man, Elf, Dwarf and Maiar. You declared yourself married to Kin of blood and they accepted it as truth. You knelt in the dirt of your homeland and sent prayers to every Valar whose name was known to you to guard your husband's soul, and to unite you upon death. There is very little else you could have done to meld your souls. Where one goes, the other goes. And of course," his expression extremely amused, "I believe that Thorin refused to allow you to go without him."

"But, but why the difference, why was he sent back from his death, why did I have to wait so long, why did he come back after me?"

"Were you not listening before? Time is a whole, not something that can be torn apart and pieces kept separate. Thorin's soul was not frozen at the moment of his death. He was not dormant, his being was not destroyed. He still existed as you lived on. After his death, he travelled to the halls of his ancestors. While he may not remember it, his soul had seventy-nine years of healing and reconciliation. You wondered why he was so different, how he could be so at peace with himself through death? It was not dying that brought him peace, but the time afterwards. He is different because he _is_ different. Just as you are."

"We... came back from the same time?" Bilbo asked slowly, mind whirring.

"Yes. His memories in the Halls of his Maker are not accessible to him, but he was there."

"But, why then, did he arrive so much later than me?"

"As I said before, the matter of throwing a soul back into a different point in the net is a delicate and risky procedure. And not always the most precise of procedures. I believe it is not so much an issue of him being late. I believe it is more of you being _early_."

"Early?" he asked faintly, slightly dizzy. Thranduil nodded.

" _Early?_ " Bilbo said again, incredulously.

Well.

All at once, Bilbo was howling, tears rolling down his face as he laughed himself silly. Bilbo was, on some level, aware that the entire Company, Thorin included, and the Rangers, and most of the Elves, were all staring at him in some confusion, but he could not help the rolling waves of hysteria from having their way with him. Thranduil quirked one enquiring eyebrow at him, but that only made things worse and all he could do was gurgle in response.

Eventually, he managed to calm himself to tired giggles, and crawl his way back onto the log that he had been sitting on with Thranduil before he'd tumbled off in his laughter. The elf looked quite amused himself, and quite relaxed, a manner in which Bilbo had rarely seen him, even as long as their friendship had lasted the previous lifetime.

A few minutes spent quietly, with only a few bouts of giggles to break their contented silence, a thought occurred to Bilbo.

"What about you? When, how did you return?"

"I returned from the same time that you did," Thranduil replied. "I do not know if you remember my visiting you in Rivendell a few years ago?"

"Vaguely," Bilbo frowned.

"You... were not having a good week. The Ring was freshly destroyed, and you were not in a good place. Elrond was working to stabilise your mental state, but I am told there were several days during those weeks that were quite difficult. I had come to bid farewell to you. My son had returned from his quest, and I left, to sail to the lands of the Valar."

"Yes," Bilbo hummed, thoughtfully. "I think I remember that. We had tea, and then, then..." He trailed off, all traces of humour gone as he now recalled becoming quite confused, raving at the Elven King to release his imprisoned friends, calling him greedy, heartless, cruel.

A hand on his arm brought his thoughts up short.

"You were not yourself," Thranduil reminded him gently. "And your state at the time was many years of resisting a terrible evil. There is no shame to be had."

Bilbo knew, on an intellectual level, that his madness was the product of an outside influence, and Elrond had told him many times that the fact that it had taken so long spoke of the strength of his mind and the goodness of his heart. That, however, could never make the feeling of such embarrassment and overwhelming failure, and an inherent fear of his own self, any better.

"This situation, it is harder for you, Bilbo, than it is for Thorin and myself. We both had times of peace; Thorin in his Maker's Halls, I in the quiet lands of ancestors past. I was given a great gift, arriving in that place. It has always been a point of debate," he told Bilbo, when the Hobbit looked at him, "we, the First-born, are meant to be eternal, and no place was made for our souls to reside upon death, like was made for Men, Dwarves, and little Hobbits. What then, happens to us, when we die?"

"You found out?"

"I did," Thranduil smiled, warmth and a fair amount of almost child-like happiness about him. "My father, my siblings, my beloved wife. I was given over a year of wonder and peace before coming back here. It was enough, to face this now. The best the Valar could do for you, was wipe the taint of evil from your soul as it returned here."

"Wipe the taint?" Bilbo asked, somewhat hopefully.

"Yes. You worried that you were influenced by the thing, yes? As I understand it, you have always been fairly resistant to its abilities, but the Powers made certain to remove all lingering traces of its hooks in your soul, regardless. You have time," he reassured. "Besides, I may have taken certain steps this time, to tip the odds in our favour."

"Oh?"

"I believe I shall tell you later," Thranduil decided, patting him on his curls. "You have had enough shocks for the day."

Bilbo let loose a few token protesting grumbles, but truthfully, he was somewhat rung out after their discussion. He had spent months, now, wondering what had happened to put him here, in this time again, and what manner of things would have allowed him to keep Thorin as well! He needed time to process all he had been told.

Goodness, so much to take in. He could barely comprehend it all. So many facets of the situation. So many people to consider, history and future, so many tangles to unravel.

A thought occurred to him, and he glanced at the serene elf sitting next to him.

"I would ask one last thing," he said. "What on all of the green land was going on between your son and Glóin's?"

"Ugh, I do not know," Thranduil sighed in exasperation, face twisting glumly. "And I don't think I want to. There is only so much a father can take. I'm still getting used to it. Who knows if I ever will."

Bilbo started to giggle again.

"You realise, if we succeed in changing events, there will probably be no... _thing_ between them? Being no Fellowship and all."

"Nonsense," Thranduil said, uncharacteristic grin bright with mischief. "Young Gimli was quite good for my boy. We certainly shall be taking care of that pesky dragon, and soon, the Dwarrows and I shall be neighbours. I see no problem setting up a few... play dates."

"Play dates?" Bilbo spluttered through his freshly renewed giggles. "Those will be some very interesting play dates."

"Yes," Thranduil agreed happily.

"Glóin may not survive it," Bilbo hiccupped. Thranduil beamed.

"I'm quite looking forward to it," he nodded brightly.

Bilbo fell of the log again.

***

"Well?" Thorin drowsily asked into his hair, tugging Bilbo in closer and hitching their blankets a little higher.

Bilbo sighed, body heavy with contentment, and more than a little relief. They weren't safe yet, but it was nice to be wrapped around Thorin this way.

"You should talk to him," he mumbled into Thorin's shoulder, moving his head to rub his cheek against Thorin's furry beard. It scratched at his skin in the most delightful way.

"Ugh," Thorin said quietly, taking over the rubbing, and beard was quite nice on neck as well. "First making nice with Men, now Elves? So cruel, my husband."

Bilbo hummed and wriggled, hands clutching Thorin a little tighter. As sleepy as he was, if they had a bed at that moment....

"After breakfast," he instructed, pulling Thorin in by the beard for a one deep, breath-stealing kiss. "The two of you can have a chat while the rest of us break down the camp."

Thorin's only response was some grumbling and shifting to press even more of himself against Bilbo, who grunted and elbowed him when he was poked most uncomfortably with the edge of Thorin's belt buckle.

Honestly. Full armour to bed was so very annoying.

***

He tried to draw his breakfast out, perhaps linger over a mug of strong tea, but Bilbo was having none of that, and before long, he was bullied into standing beside the bloody Elf as the others took their sweet merry time breaking down to the camp ready to depart. Judging by the ridiculously careful and slow way they were moving, Thorin had no doubt Bilbo had berated them all into allowing him time to talk to the Elf.

They stood in silence, gaze taking in the rolling hills in the pre-dawn light for a time. Finally, Thranduil sighed.

"We were once something like friends, you and I. We had the beginnings, at least, of friendship."

Thorin stayed silent for a long time, still but for the gentle stirring of his hair in the breeze, so long that the sun had risen from beyond the tree line ahead, clear and bright by the time he stirred.

"Seems a lifetime ago," he mused quietly, before he chuffed a surprised sounding laugh. "Literally, I suppose, a lifetime ago."

"I suppose," Thranduil agreed distractedly. Behind them, the sounds of camp quietly being dismantled was the only thing to break the silence between them.

Thorin had been introduced to the responsibilities of royalty young, for his kind. He'd met Thranduil at functions, and sat in on many negotiations between their peoples in the years before the dragon came. He was correct; given time, there had been a fair chance they could have had a fairly civil working relationship at the very least, perhaps friendship.

If not for Smaug.

"I was afraid," Thranduil admitted suddenly. "Once before, had I borne witness to monstrous destruction wrought by Dragon fire. I knew if I sent my people forward, there would be only death. You know what it is like, now, to witness such a gruesome end by one of those beasts. I could not face the prospect of sending my people to an end so horrifying. When you came through my Woods to reclaim your homeland, I saw only fire, only the terrible death that your actions would bring to so many. And I was afraid." He turned toward Thorin then.

"I regret not assisting your people as we did those of Esgaroth. My reasons are... complex, and the words to express them intangible. A thousand years of layered dispute between our people both petty and bitterly justified, a thousand perceived slights and barely-concealed aggression at the root of alliance between your Grandfather's kingdom and mine, a thousand excuses and nothing that I could issue that would satisfy. There is no twist of tongue, no verbal mechanism I may utter that I believe will sway your opinion of myself or my kind or build trust for us to move forward with unity. What lies between us is too complex for some few words to rend our circumstances peaceful. That does not mean I do not regret. That I would not have you know my sorrow. Or my remorse."

It was almost as if Thranduil had not spoken, to observe Thorin. He had expected... he was not sure. Intellectually, he acknowledged that this Dwarf was not the Thorin he knew before. Instinctually, one still expected the barely restrained fury of a slighted Durin. Not calm, not loose stillness, not a glimmer of acceptance in eyes still far-staring.

"I have been living this life over a lot longer than you have," Thranduil admitted. "I was given the choice to do this, and I agreed. I admit, there was a part of me that thought that perhaps I could change more than the fate of the One Ring. But, the Valar are not fools. I... 'came back', a few years after Smaug took Erebor. Too late to warn you. Too late to help you. Too late to change anything between us. Too late to do much more than wait, and prepare."

This, finally wrought more of a reaction, Thorin starting at the news that Thranduil had been... returned so much earlier than they had. An extra one hundred and seventy years!

That was a lot of time to consider the past. Future. The past version of the future.

"Bilbo told me what you said," Thorin finally spoke. "About me. About why I am... different. I was having difficulties. I felt sorrow, I felt guilt, I felt shame. But I did not feel them _enough_. It was worrying that I could face forward with such lightness of my spirit. With knowledge comes awareness. I feel the difference, and I _know_ that I am different now and that is no bad thing. I have no hatred for you." He turned then, facing Thranduil.

"You are correct. We shall not be miraculously harmonious. I want to say that before does not matter, but although I have no cause to carry that grief within me anymore, I cannot say the same for my kin. And above all else, I am still King of my people. I am the embodiment of _their_ grief. So I cannot say, this thing before is nothing. My people still sorrow.

"I still have hope though. There is hope that this, what we have been tasked with, that with this hard thing, there will be reward. That there will be a home for my people, and I will be there, with my family, my husband. And my people will heal. And one day, we will be able to say, this thing between us is nothing. It is no more. Generations of my people ahead will not know sorrow between us. And we will know, that today was the start of it. And that matters.

"You cannot lessen the sorrow of the Dwarves of Erebor. I cannot lessen your guilt. I have faith, though, that we may aid in future healing. That we have a future now, to heal."

Thranduil regarded him silently for a time, eyes intent, and then, somewhat soft.

"A beginning, then?" he asked, offering his hand.

"A beginning," Thorin nodded, clasping it with his own.

****

"All sorted?" Bilbo asked quietly, settling back and cursing that blasted belt buckle again. Whatever had passed between the Elven King and Bilbo's beloved, Thorin had returned to them all to redistribute his own saddle bags onto poor Thistle, and toss Bilbo up into Minty's saddle before swinging himself up behind his husband. Riding with Thorin was lovely, truly, but at times, that belt buckle...

"We have an accord," Thorin sighed, nosing into Bilbo's curls for a moment.

"You sound delighted," Bilbo said dryly, peering over his shoulder to lift one sardonic eyebrow in Thorin's direction.

Thorin huffed and pouted, wrapping his arms around Bilbo's waist and resting his chin upon Bilbo's shoulder.

They rode in silence for a while, Bilbo waiting patiently.

"Everything is _different_ ," Thorin said at last, a hint of uncharacteristic petulance to his tone.

"I think that was the point, yes," Bilbo said.

Thorin sighed again.

"I-" he cut himself off, frowning as he reached for an explanation for the fidgety jumble of emotions that was lingering from his talk with Thranduil. "I dreamt of retaking Erebor for my people for over a century."

Bilbo said nothing.

"When we actually accomplished that, and drove Smaug out and took my homeland, I was... I felt lost. I was never a King. Or at least, I never thought of myself as the King of out people. For a long time, I convinced myself I was merely keeping things running until my father returned. When I knew that he was truly lost to us, and we finally had Erebor..."

Bilbo nudged Thorin when he trailed off and shrugged.

"When we had Erebor?"

Thorin shifted, frowning again.

"I think once we had Erebor, I didn't really know what to do with it. I know I was considering how long it would take for Fíli to grow used to ruling there at the end, before I lost sight of anything but gold."

"Alright," Bilbo said, a little startled at the confession. Honestly, it had never occurred to Bilbo that had Thorin lived, and been sane of course, that he would not want to rule Erebor as the King Bilbo knew he was.

"And now," Thorin said, and again he hesitated.

"Now?"

Thorin slumped, chin thumping back onto Bilbo's shoulder.

"And now, I'm bloody determined to win at everything we have to accomplish this time, and I am anticipating the time where I will take my place as King of Erebor and be what my people deserve, because I'm ready now. And that means making peace with _Thranduil_ and looking forward to a lifetime of yearly meetings where I will have to be genial, and even come to like the pointy-eared prat. _Yearly meetings_ , Bilbo. My whole existence has spun and dumped me beard-arseways."

Bilbo frowned. And frowned some more. And took the reins from Thorin and steered Minty in closer to the group from where she has wandered in Thorin's lax grip. And he frowned some more.

And then he started to laugh. And laugh. And _laugh_.

"What?" Thorin demanded.

"You are the most ridiculous creature," Bilbo managed to gasp, doubling over Minty's neck. "Yearly," he choked, and burst into a fresh set of giggles.

"Do I even want to know?" Dwalin asked, his pony falling into step with Minty.

" _Elves_ ," Bilbo gurgled at him, swaying to the side until Thorin yanked him back up and wrapped his arms back around him.

"The Blue Mountains truly aren't that bad," Thorin told a startled Dwalin mournfully and Bilbo shrieked, legs kicking up as his laughter freshened.

****

Bilbo eventually was allowed back onto his own horse, after he had insisted they stop for an early lunch, Elves included, and he giggled his way through an interrogation by Thorin's nephews and Talli as to what Thorin had said to bring him such amusement. He'd escaped to chortle next to Argus, who had been speaking quietly with Thranduil and Gandalf and they had ignored him for the most part through the short repast, and Bilbo has put himself back on Thistle for his own protection- there was only so much his poor stomach muscles could take.

And so it was that Bilbo was busy chatting to Bofur, Glóin and Dori about braids appropriate for him to weave into Thorin's hair when they reached the trees and were led to a small ford -no gushing river of death this time, thanks all the powers of the known lands- and still quite distracted when they crossed into the woods proper.

_"Doom,"_ he heard, whispering and rustling with the tree tops far overhead.

"What?" Bilbo blurted, twisting about to look behind him.

"What 'what'?" Bofur asked.

"Did you hear that?"

The dwarrows closest looked about themselves, quiet and watchful, and Dori shrugged.

"I don't hear anything."

Bilbo frowned. Dori was right. There was absolutely nothing to hear. Not even a whisper of breeze through the foliage. No birds. Animals. Nothing.

_"Doom and despair, all I can see,"_ the whisper rushed past him, and Bilbo gasped, almost falling from Thistle, had Glóin not caught him.

"Thorin!" Ren called sharply from behind him, steering her own horse to shove between Dori and Bilbo, supporting the Hobbit from the other side.

_"All I can see..."_ The words throbbed heavy through his head, and Bilbo moaned, swaying again.

_"All I can see..."_ the words trailed off in a whisper and were gone, and Bilbo opened his eyes.

Thorin had taken Ren's place in hovering over him, face twisted with worry, and the rest of their ever expanding group hovering about them.

"A headache," Bilbo said quickly, suddenly unwilling to worry Thorin any more. "We've had a hard week or two. I am exhausted."

Thorin was not convinced in the slightest. Most of their group nodded their heads, though, no doubt thinking back to his near-drowning, and that horrid trip through the mountains.

Gandalf was not convinced, Bilbo noticed. Neither was Thranduil, but that was to be expected.

Thorin may have questioned him further, had a flurry of elves not appeared almost soundlessly around them. A few had their bows out and ready, though not pointed, thank goodness, no doubt due to their kin that had come to their aid in the valley and remained as escort for their journey.

"Haldir," Gandalf said, nodding to the Elf standing tall and disapproving ahead of them.

The elf ignored them for the moment, gaze darting about until it landed on Bilbo and he stared, tilting his head for a moment, unblinking.

"I do not like this," he finally said, eyes flitting back to Gandalf.

Gandalf raised one expressive eyebrow at the stern elf, but said nothing. Haldir scowled.

"I am here to escort you to Caras Galadhon."

"We are here to go to Lorien," Thorin said, scowl in place as the elf turned away. Haldir did not respond, merely gesturing to his men to form up around them and stalking off into the forest.

"A common misconception," Gandalf coughed, uncomfortable. "Lorien is merely another name for the land of Lothlórien itself. The city that lies within is named Caras Galadhon. There we shall speak to the Lady of the City, Galadriel."

Thorin's scowl deepened, ears burning a light red and expression thunderous. Thorin did not care to be made a fool of. Neither did Bilbo, come to think of it. Gandalf had never once indicated that his maps were not entirely accurate!

"And you did not think to mention this before?" he demanded of Gandalf.

"Tis a common misunderstanding for all that are not Elf-kind, Bilbo, and they do not tend to bother correcting outsiders of the inaccuracy -indeed, it appears such on most modern maps! I did not think it would matter overmuch to you."

"Well it does," Bilbo muttered.

Honestly, that wizard.

"We should be in the main city by nightfall, at any rate," Gandalf continued blithely, ignoring Bilbo and Thorin's matching glares.

"And then the fun truly begins," Thranduil remarked softly behind Bilbo, riding after Haldir, and Bilbo exchanged one heavy glance with Thorin.

Yes. _Fun._

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, Thranduil and his love of scented note paper and lilac ink is all Beth. She said it, and I wheezed from laughing so hard, so I tapped that in last minute. Everybody give her a clap, cause she's awesome.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.... I know. Been a LONG time since update. To be honest, I was finding sorting out what I wanted to happen here a bit... *sigh* much? And I have been really invested in Woods, and I have Hobbit Story Big Bang coming up and a few other things that are little 500 word 'I want to write this' bits, and kids, and stupid FAMILY, and my craft and trying to get some dolls done to sell.... I'm pooped, babes. 
> 
> I am not giving this up, though, peeps and darlin's. I'm still a'tappin' away when I get a chance, okay?
> 
> And everybody give Beta-Beth MASSIVE claps for powering through and reading this for me even though she is super sick and busy with English Mothers Day and personal stuff and look, she's super awesome, alright? Like, massively awesome in ways that blow my mind. Clap, people. And send her get-well-soon thoughts. Poor Beth. *pets*

Three days. 

_Three days_.

They had been 'guests' of the elves of Lothlórien for three days. And Galadriel of the Golden Wood had so far refused to see them.

Even Gandalf had been unable to pin down his old friend, stalking about muttering under his breath about this, that and the other. So far, the Elf who had escorted them, Haldir, had been stern in his confining the -quite expanded- Company to guest accommodations, and the few times they had seen the Lord of the realm, named Celeborn, he had been coolly unimpressed with them. Even _Thranduil_ was being treated quite atrociously- by Bilbo's Hobbitish standards of polite hosting, at least.

"Three days," Thorin growled, pacing back and forth across the balcony garden Bilbo was sprawled in. " _Three days!_ "

"I know," Bilbo sighed. "You've said that at least a dozen times this morning. At least it's a change from yesterday’s 'It's been two days!'. I appreciate our diverse conversational topics." 

Thorin snarled and kept pacing, right up until Bilbo sighed again, long and suffering, and Thorin... wilted. Jittering in place for a moment, he huffed and stalked over, collapsing onto the grass beside Bilbo.

"All this way to talk to this blasted _sorceress_ and she won't even see us!"

"I know."

"I'd think it was because we are Khazâd, but even Gandalf and Thranduil cannot convince an audience out of her ridiculously unfriendly entourage!"

"I know."

"This is _important_ , I don't even know what we are going to do without her advice."

"I know."

"Three days!"

" _I. Know._ "

Thorin rolled his head to take in Bilbo's expression. 

"Apologies, love," Thorin said, reaching over to take one of Bilbo's hands and press a kiss to his knuckles. He kept a hold of the hand while falling silent, feeling Bilbo relax some into the odd grass in the little bower in which they were hidden.

He really was supposed to be letting Bilbo rest. The day they had arrived, they had been greeted not by the Lord and Lady of the Golden Wood, but by Lord Elrond of Rivendell, which had been more than a little shocking, and a whole lot worrying. By their reckoning, Elrond should most definitely be in Rivendell, and they'd had many conversations about what they could have done to have changed that- no conversation in which they had come close to any decent conclusion. About all Elrond had said on the subject, was that Galadriel herself had summoned him many weeks previously, though he himself confessed to not yet knowing why. It was both a comfort and a worry that Galadriel had called him here to meet them. 

For their first meeting, though, besides being more than a little shocked, Bilbo had been... well. His encounter with the Elven Lord had been rather odd, even with Thorin's prior knowledge of events. Caught between feigning unfamiliarity and joy at seeing one of his closest friends, Bilbo had been overly nervous and become quite upset, to the point of swooning a bit into Thorin's arms, much to Bilbo's later embarrassment.

Lord Elrond, however, had taken the time to use his special skills upon Bilbo's half-enfeebled form to determine if his seemingly frail state was from illness. Which, surprisingly enough, it had been.

Thorin had felt absolutely wretched when he had realised that his tiny husband was still not well from his near-death and drowning at Tharbad. A mild infection had set into his system, Elrond had told them, leaving him weaker and more easily tired than normal. In retrospect, Thorin should have noticed and known himself that something was wrong- hadn't Bilbo half collapsed in exhaustion running from the Orcs across the plains? It should have been obvious.

But he'd missed it.

"Stop that," Bilbo said abruptly, and Thorin blinked, rolling his head to meet Bilbo's frown. He'd honestly thought that Bilbo had been dozing, having relaxed and wriggled and stilled as he did when settling in for a nap. Obviously not.

"Stop what?" he asked, rolling a little towards Bilbo's relaxed frame. 

"Stop doing that frowny 'I have disappointed myself with my own actions' thingy. I don't like it. Stop it."

"Yes, Honoured Consort-King," Thorin said very seriously, before spoiling it by rolling his eyes. Bilbo glared, and Thorin planted one finger in between Bilbo's furrowed brow. "I should not have been keeping you awake. You're supposed to be resting, my precious one."

Bilbo huffed, wriggling with displeasure. 

"Honestly, all this fuss over me and I am perfectly _fine_ -"

"Lord Elrond said," Thorin began, but Bilbo made another huffed noise and swiped one hand through the air sharply.

"Elrond is an old fuss pants," he said.

Thorin let loose his own humph, reaching to hold onto the waving hand, bringing it to him for a brief kiss.

The most amusing thing -and the only entertainment to distract from their predicament- since they had arrived, was watching Bilbo around Elrond. He couldn't help himself, really; Elrond had been one of his closest friends, and he had lived with the Elf for the last few decades of his life, been closer, really, to the Lord of Rivendell than to anybody else in his lifetime. Thorin included. After all, as much as Thorin and Bilbo's relationship had been deep and fierce, it had also been short, a mere year together before Thorin had been taken from this world. His time with Elrond, however, had been much longer, and of an emotional depth of a completely different kind than that which he had shared with Thorin. 

And so Bilbo was caught in a never ending swing of holding himself stiff and distant from Elrond, and subconsciously falling back into an easy bantering tone of affection with the confused Elven Lord. The reactions that Thorin's little husband had been pulling from the normally inherently-calm Lord had been downright hysterical, especially the way that every time Bilbo caught himself reverting to treating Elrond as he had pre-time travel -snarky and familiar and gently berating in the way only close family could be- he would become more than a little flustered, blushing a brilliant red and stuttering something ridiculous and practically running from whatever room they were in. It didn't help that Bilbo and his behaviour were evidently _fascinating_ to Elrond, who sought out Bilbo at every available opportunity, only for the interaction to play out again, and for Elrond to grow even more intrigued by this Hobbit that treated him as a long beloved friend.

Thorin, therefore, found himself in the strangest of circumstances, bouncing back and forth from anxiety at the delay and Galadriel’s refusal to see them, through hot anger at the delay and Galadriel’s refusal to see them, to wild amusement at the comedy his husband was providing for his entertainment.

"Stop laughing," Bilbo huffed beside him, and Thorin tried to muffle his giggles, he really did, but he could not help himself.

"His face," he chortled, rolling himself over to sling a leg over Bilbo, "at breakfast, when you told him off for taking the last of the cheese scones, and cursed him with exceptionally bad gas for the day!"

"Oh do shut up," Bilbo said, radiating displeasure, face slowly turning pink as Thorin's guffaws increased.

"And then when you realised what you'd said," Thorin gasped, hugging Bilbo's stiff form to him, "and tried to backtrack, and you said, you said-"

Bilbo sighed, trying to cross his arms across his chest, but with Thorin holding onto him, more managing a crossing of wrists over his stomach.

"You said," Thorin tried, but it was too much, and he was gurgling too much, only managing a strangled "bum" and a hiccupped " _nice_ elf" before he was howling, burying his face into Bilbo's shoulder, stomach contracting with the force of his laughter.

"Oh do get off, you wretched Dwarrow!" Bilbo cried, face flaming, pushing on Thorin's shoulder half-heartedly before he collapsed into easy chortles himself.

Thorin hugged his Hobbit further into his arms, and tried to think of anything but a flustered Bilbo babbling about whether an Elvish bum was a smelly bum or not, lest his stomach muscles tear under the strain of his belly-deep laughing, choosing instead to attempt to name the stages of brass production in his head until he calmed enough to speak. 

Pulling back enough to look down at Bilbo, Thorin grinned, leaning to rub his nose against his husband’s. 

"I do love you," he said, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye before he caught another guffaw and tilted his head back, still laughing. 

Dwalin stood at the other end of the odd garden-in-a-tree, staring at him as if he had never seen him before. Thorin, however, was past the point of composing himself for company, and waved his shield-brother over, letting Bilbo push him off in a show of impatience and shuffle back to sit against an odd little step in the garden.

"Hello Mister Dwalin. Ignore him, he's an imbecile. What has brought you to this fine garden?" 

Dwalin humphed, eyes roving over the little bower suspiciously. Apparently, the Dwarrows were _not_ impressed with the concept of a city built within branches of trees, no matter how magical, and had been muttering about structural support and load bearing and such since they had arrived. While Bilbo thought a garden built into the ginormous branch of a tree was wonderful, Dwalin seemed to lean more towards inherently suspicious. 

It did not help that Nori seemed determined to frighten the poor Dwarrow out of a few decades’ growth by waiting until they were both standing under a particularly hefty bough and then slyly musing aloud on the exact number of different ways that death could be caused by falling from a broken tree limb; or, with almost perfectly feigned seriousness, starting a discussion about the likelihood of a tree trunk collapsing whilst someone was ‘trapped’ in one of the funny little rooms within. Dwalin spent a lot of time sidling nervously about with a death grip on his axes.

"It's been three days," Dwalin suddenly grunted, and Bilbo groaned loudly, palm meeting his forehead with a loud smack.

Thorin grinned briefly, but it faded under the reminder, and he sighed and slumped.

"There is nothing to be done about it, so I suggest you enjoy the time to rest," Bilbo said a little sharply, but he rose to fetch a plate of sweets to put down on a nearby surface, and pushed Dwalin gently to sit by Thorin.

"How can you be so fine with the delay?" Dwalin asked with a great deal of frustration, angrily stuffing a fruit-packed bread into his mouth whole.

"I'm not," Bilbo said with his own load of frustration. "I am not on the least bit happy. I'm frustrated, and confused and oh so worried."

"Well, you don't seem it," Dwalin grumbled, and Bilbo flopped back into his mossy nest.

"What's the point when the lot of you won't stop grumbling?" Bilbo muttered, throwing an arm over his eyes.

The two stayed fairly silent at that for a while, before they started whispering just low enough that Bilbo could not quite catch what it was they were whispering about, though whispers soon turned to hisses, and then a tussle that upset the last of the sweets, by the sound of the crash followed by Dwalin's roared curse, Thorin's flippant insult and an increase in thumps and expletives.

"My, my," Elrond's voice made Bilbo sit up, his eyes opening wide as the elf lord strolled into their little bower. "Seems quite the disagreement."

"I'm not disturbing Bilbo," Thorin said quickly, and then blushed, back straightening and face twisting to something more dignified and distinctly scowly. Elrond smiled, but said no more, simply standing and observing them keenly, hands folded behind his back. 

He had that face on. Bilbo knew that face. He was busy coming to all sorts of conclusions and being too curious for his own good. 

Bugger it.

Bilbo tittered nervously and jumped to his feet.

"He is not disturbing me at all, but I may just take myself off to bed, hmm?"

"I find it odd," Elrond said idly, before he could turn, "the familiarity which you adopt in my presence. It frightens you a great deal, to know me so well. I do not remember you, though."

Bilbo stopped dead, eyes wide and caught in place.

"Er.." was about all he could manage. Honestly, he should have anticipated this; Elrond was never one to allow a topic to be tip-toed around for long. 

"Gandalf tells me that you are far more than you appear. I wonder at this. Do you treat him as you do me? How do you know us, Hobbit of The Shire?"

Great budding bullsacks. Nosy elves. 

"Look," he said, pointing one recriminating finger in the air and lifting his chin. "You can just stop that right now."

"Stop what?" Elrond asked innocently, head tilted in fascination, wandering slowly around Bilbo. Oh he knew that tactic. Casual meandering while he studied his subject from all angles.

"Oh., you think you can play the innocent game with me of all people! Well, I'll not be falling for your shenanigans. Stop fishing for details, you wretched busybody. Oh bother! How Erestor puts up with you, I've never understood."

"You know the Lord Chancellor of Rivendell, Erestor, my kinsman and the most trusted of my advisors?" Elrond asked, fascinated, and Bilbo made a strangled noise of an animal trapped, eyes widening as he realised he had done it again. Blast it!

"...No?" he offered tentatively. Elrond's eyes brightened with further interest, and Bilbo coughed harshly, waving Thorin away when he stood in concern.

"Must rest, else I may relapse, good day!" he blurted out and made for the safety of his and Thorin's room and away from any opportunity for Elrond to expand his interrogation.

Nosy flipping elves.

Once safely behind the slammed door and propped up in the lovely, soft, far too wide -though comfortably low, which Bilbo was certain was not such a nod towards the shorter of their Company, but more the style of bed favoured in the Golden Wood- bed, Bilbo made no move towards resting. No, he had something else more important to attend to. Thorin would likely keep Elrond distracted for him for a while, and then Thranduil would no doubt be appearing soon to flounce about and complain about being ignored by the Lord and Lady of this realm. As well as the very strange new sort of-friendship that was developing between Thranduil and Thorin, there was also the absolutely bizarre version of aggressive flirting that happened between Elrond and the Mirkwood King whenever they were in the same room, and that would also keep the others from bothering him a while, caught up in _that_ most interesting show. It was a shame to miss the entertainment, but... No, right now, he had _sneaking_ to contemplate.

Over his rather long- for a Hobbit- life, Bilbo had become rather adept at the fine skill of sneaking. As far as he was concerned, it was an art form, and jolly fun, too, when there were nosy relatives about. And while he'd had his ring to rely on, well, it wasn't as simple as becoming invisible and becoming totally unnoticed, oh no, there were footprints and shadows and noises to give himself away if he was not careful, and people often knew by instinct that another was nearby if you were too obvious. It was making one's whole being unnoticeable, inconsequential that was the trick. And often, the ring had seemed such a bother to him, a heavy weight not worth the moment to slip it on -some part of himself sensible enough to recognise it as the danger he now knew it to be- and so he had developed the inborn skill that all Hobbits had for disappearing at opportune moments, and developed it into an art beyond that of his kinsfolk, not merely blending in to his surroundings, but actually becoming invisible. He was quite marvellous at it, if he did say so himself. Elrond had never caught him pranking him, not once, though he had always known who it had been that had played mischief upon him, and retaliated in kind.

Bilbo had learnt quite a few sneaky tricks from the old fussy pants, after all.

Oh how Bilbo missed his friend. 

Having Thorin know him from their second meeting was a blessing and a miracle gifted to him by the Valar, it really was, and a puzzle at times. He and Thorin had loved each other fiercely the last time, to be sure. Bilbo's entire world view, his entire reason for being had shifted long ago, moved to a grumpy Dwarrow from the moment those ridiculous iron boots had stomped through his door. They had become the focus of each other's lives from that very night, even before they had finally gotten to the business of kisses and endearments, eyes permanently set on each other well before admitting the depth of their feelings. He supposed, in retrospect, their relationship was hasty, even as it was unconditional and heartfelt, but they had been on a quest that had a very low chance of survival, and neither of them had ever hesitated to commit themselves.

Despite that, they had not just been two very different people with very different life experiences, but two different species, even, and the differences had been startling and the disagreements epic from the beginning. They had fought and disagreed and loved, and hurt each other again and again, and it was a wonder that the Company had not thrown them both of a cliff at the earliest opportunity, really. In time, they would have settled and gentled and fallen into the easy rhythm of living as one, but their chance at that had been taken, cut short before they had reached that point.

So it was odd, this time around, to find that they had moved past the point of easily flared tempers and misunderstandings, and finding themselves behaving as if they had indeed spent those approximately seventy-nine years together rather than separated by the divide of life and death. Intellectually and emotionally, Bilbo was almost seventy nine years older, and Thorin _had_ spent those years in healing and recovery in Mahal's halls. That being said, Bilbo still found himself experiencing the oddest of moments, startled silent by himself and his husband, that they could be as Bilbo had always dreamt they would have been, understanding and cherishing and gently delighting in each other's presence, hearts in tandem, thinking and breathing as almost one entity, aware of each other at all times. Perhaps it was the parting that had contributed, both very aware of the gift that being together was, and unwilling to bother with silliness when they had each other to wonder over. 

There had not been a moment since Thorin had stepped into Bag End for the second time that Bilbo had not been filled with gratitude at higher powers allowing the two of them to come together again, no matter the cost. He really hadn't. He shouldn't want for anything more.

He just really missed his very best friend.

Oh, he missed them all, really. The Company was exactly the same, and they had accepted him easily as a friend to them, but there were moments that Bilbo found himself... _frustrated_. And sad. There was so much he remembered, not just from the quest that had changed them from a group of misfits, to _family_ , but of the lives that came after. As far away from him as they had been, letters had flown thick and fast between them, and they had indeed come for tea, many many times over the years, faithfully appearing at four in the afternoon, grinning and so pleased to be presenting him with a tea cake or a basket of good biscuits purchased on their way up the hill, mindful of afternoon tea etiquette they picked up to please him. Memories of all of it, always there, and always bursting to come forth at the most inconvenient of times.

Balin would sit beside him and say something that made Bilbo open his mouth to apologise for not returning that last book, ask after his latest apprentice and the awful pranks Balin would subject the poor lads and lasses to, enquire into how Dís was doing, or berate his friend for _dying in those stinking caves of Moria, how could you do that to poor Dwalin, to me, to what was left of our family?_. 

Bofur would be laughing and Bilbo would want to ask for another story of his sons that did not yet exist -four in total, and all as cheeky and kind as their da- and his single beautiful daughter. Bofur had almost burst with pride to sire her -and all of them, really- with the loveliest, shyest Dwarrow Bilbo had ever met since Ori. Fara was a lovely lady from the Blacklock clan, skin dark and eyes bright and twinkling, and a tinker by trade who had become Bifur's best friend less than a minute into meeting, hearing Bofur tell of it, and the family was a happy, albeit _mischievous_ one. Bofur had always had such wonderful stories to tell of them.

At story time by the fire, he would start to reminisce on the time Nori had caused a Shire-wide kerfuffle on a visit when he had stolen all Lobelia's spoons (as revenge for Bilbo's, he had told him), a farmer's lamb (that had appeared in the back room of a tavern two days later), almost every mathom in the local museum (not that anybody had noticed until they had caught him), six of the Brandybuck children (willing captives, apparently, and just as mischievous) and two fruit pies off Mrs Proudfoot's window sill (plum pies), and had the bounders chase him back and forth the Shire a whole afternoon- ending quite well, once the Brandybuck matrons had thanked him for the impromptu babysitting, and he'd charmed Mrs Proudfoot with a large basket of fresh-picked berries and an 'acquired' crate of lovely fresh mushrooms (and hadn't Bilbo had a word or two to say about that? If Nori was going to be scrumping from the local farmers, he could at least have the decency to steal mushrooms for _Bilbo_ ). 

Or the time Dwalin came for his eleventieth birthday with all twelve of his children, and a dozen Ereborian guards -and jugs of Ereborian Ale- courtesy of King Dain, all gratefully welcomed guests who'd helped him pack to leave the Shire for the very last time, Dwalin who'd been so good with entertaining Frodo with tales of far-off Dwarf kingdoms, Dwalin who'd sat in a field and drank a whole jug of Ol' Gaffer's moonshine with him on the eve of his birthday and cried with him, laughing and sobbing on each other's shoulders in memory of a long gone Thorin, Dwalin who'd teased him all the way to Rivendell for the old hood and cloak he had worn, too big and not really green anymore, leant by the other on their quest so long before, Dwalin who'd regaled his children with the tales of their quest again and again, the young ones hanging onto every word of the King they had never known, and heard of a thousand times before from their da.

Letters with Dori, and visits from Bombur's children, countless gifts sent from Bifur, many visits from Glóin, and more letters from Óin. All his beloved family, all so much between them all, and none of it known.

The memories were there, in Bilbo's head, and he could do nothing with them. They were the Dwarrow-kin of his heart for approximately seventy-nine years, but for them, he was the odd little husband of their King and nothing more. And to further add to the weight, twenty years living in Elrond's household searching for peace and battling madness, had led him to a relationship with the elf that almost defied description. They were family and beloved friends and confidants in times of trial and co-conspirators in their own brand of mischief, and right here and now, Elrond's counsel was something he yearned for.

It was something he was not going to _get_ though, not until Bilbo could speak to the other with no secrets, and Bilbo was not even sure if that was possible yet. They had agreed, he and Thorin, and Thranduil as well, once they had spoken to him, that it was best not speak to _anybody_ of what they had experienced, until they had spoken with Galadriel and sought her counsel. One thing Thranduil knew to be true was that Bilbo and Thorin had been compelled to seek her, and he had been instructed to make sure to bring them to her if need be. He did not, however, know why. And was furious on their arrival when she had refused to see them.

Which was the crux of his problem. He needed to find Galadriel. If he were in his original time, then Elrond would have made the perfect partner in crime. The elf was a fellow sneakster, a mischief maker and adventurer at heart, but tempered by time, responsibilities, and countless tragedies to possess a wisdom and calm insight into most situations. Bilbo could sneak with the best of them, but he had no idea where to find Galadriel in a _city_ of trees, of winding stairs and balconies and bridges between branches, and hidden nooks and secret gardens and all sorts of surprising rooms. What little he could remember of Elrond speaking of visits to the wood, of Elohir and Elladan and Arwen on their visits to their Grandmother, and the even smaller little specks of Frodo's rambling of the place when he was too old and vague to really listen, was not near enough to guess at where to find one single Elf that he had never actually met could be hidden. For all he knew, she could be in the next tree over, or half a forest away. 

No matter how careful he was in taking himself away for a spot of exploring, it would not be long before he was missed by their not-so-discreet watchers, and found and returned. And if he pushed things too far, their confinement in this place could become more severe, and then where would they be?

Nonetheless, Bilbo had quite had enough. Thorin had only been vocalising exactly how Bilbo was feeling. Time was rushing away from him, and rather than an enlightening respite from their travels, Lothlorien was beginning to feel more like a mistake. He was clamouring to move, to proactively move to accomplish the goal that was apparently the reason they were here. It was an itch, a rise of something almost like breathlessness in his breast, an ugly petulant anger lingering just below the surface of his forced calm, this urge to _go_ , and _get it done_. The sooner he got this done, the sooner he could try for a future with his Thorin, if they didn't die in the process, of course. 

Sneaking in no particular direction it was. There was no way he could sit and do nothing any more.

***

'Escaping' their guest suite was not the problem in the end. The Elves had not noticed him leave. Apparently they had not been watching the Company as closely as Bilbo had thought.

Really. Not.

"Go back," he insisted quietly, flapping his hands at his followers.

"Where you going, Auntie Bilbo?" Talli asked, peering around the next corner and practically jittering with far too much excitement.

"Nowhere. Go back to the rest of the Company."

"But we want to explore too!" Kíli said loudly, bouncing in place, eyes wide and pleading and did they think him stupid? 'Exploring'. More like 'Cause as much mischief as we can get away with'.

He groaned and rubbed his eyes tiredly, groaning again when he opened them again to see the boys looking very serious and worried.

"Everything is fine, I am fine, you need to go back up to the guest quarters before Thorin brings the whole forest down looking for you," he insisted. All three snorted at him. _Snorted_. Oh, he was telling their mothers about this.

"No way," Fíli said. "Thorin would skin us alive if we let you wander off on your own amongst _elves_."

Bilbo rolled his eyes, but Kíli and Talli were both nodding seriously, and really, what did they think was going to happen to him here? The elves may _sing_ him away? Honestly.

Nonetheless, he ignored them and crept on, carefully taking the smaller dimmer bridges and paths amongst the bows of the great tree, trying to remember anything Frodo had said about Galadriel and her woods. There had been something about a mirror, but that was about all he could recall of his boy's stories, the rest lost to the drifting of an old man's mind.

A crossroad appeared, and Bilbo paused, ignoring the whispered arguments behind him over who had just stood on whose toes. He chewed his lip thoughtfully. Really, he had no clue in which direction to head, but down seemed to be the thing most right to him at the moment, so that might be the way to go. And if he followed that path there, and then down that bit there, then maybe-

"Why are you not in the area assigned to you?" the elf that appeared asked sharply, disapproval strong over his compelling features.

"Whoa, it's the pretty one again," Kíli said, and the elf's glare seemed to darken a hundredfold. "You think it's a lass?" Kíli whispered, and Bilbo's eyes widened at the look of pure murder that crossed the elf's visage.

"Oh, it's, um, Haldir, isn't it?" BIlbo asked brightly, stepping forward and away from the boys. Luckily, the elf's stare moved from the cowering boys to himself, and one eyebrow arched at him imperiously.

"You may call me Marchwarden," he said blandly.

"Right, shall do," Talli said, stepping forward and slapping the elf on the shoulder in a show of geniality. "So, Haldir, what do you do for fun around here?"

"Marchwarden," Haldir told them sharply, and Fíli grinned at him. 

"Right, right, but fun, Haldir, where's the fun at? Because we are bored, bored, _bored_."

" _Marchwarden_ ," Haldir insisted, but Kíli was already leaning over a balcony, legs waving as he lifted himself clean off the ground.

"Hey Haldir, what's down there?" he asked loudly, and promptly slid down the banister, and Bilbo took one careful, quiet step backwards, and another.

"Sorry 'bout him!" Fíli said with a grin to Haldir, before bouncing off -literally, from rail to rail- after his brother.

Bilbo took another step backwards. 

"Hey, Haldir, you don't mind if they do that with their knives, do you?" Talli said brightly, smacking the elf in the shoulder again, and pointing off downwards to where the boys were doing probably unspeakable things that Bilbo would have to halt his escape to yell at them for, so he didn't bother looking.

" _Marchwarde-_ No! Don't do that!" the elf called angrily, taking off after the boys, and Bilbo silently scarpered in the opposite direction, over a walkway and down a gracefully spiralling staircase, and through a long hall -hiding behind a statue or two when elves drifted past- and down another path and through a lovely little airy room and into a garden.

While the balcony gardens out of the guest quarters where they resided were absolutely beautiful, this was magnificence on a level that was nothing short of magical, and for a while Bilbo could do nothing but stand and stare. But the view did not change, and the grass beckoned his feet, and his fingers reached ever so tentatively to brush against the blooms bursting all about him, and Bilbo wandered in shock and delight for long minutes, self-appointed quest quite forgotten for the moment. 

On his knees in front of a bed of a tiny delicate flower he had never seen before, it took him a while to notice that he wasn't alone, an Elf sat still and silent on a bench nearby, and Bilbo almost leapt in fright at the discovery.

"Ah, Lord Celeborn," he tittered nervously. "I was just admiring your garden. It is astoundingly beautiful."

Clear blue eyes studied him intently. 

Bilbo had spent 20 years living in a city of elves, a race that had perfected the art of 'bland' into their expressions. Despite that, Bilbo had never had a terribly difficult time reading the emotions on any particular elf, not even Erestor, Elrond's uptight chief advisor, and that was one elf that even Elrond had a hard time reading. Even after all that time learning to understand elves and become comfortable amongst them, Bilbo was having a heck of a time reading anything off of this one. Celeborn had perfected 'bland' and moved right along to icy.

"Nainawenie."

"I'm sorry?" Bilbo asked tentatively. His Quenya really had become quite rusty what with disuse, old age and senility. He'd have to do something about that.

"The flowers. Lament of a maiden."

"Oh," Bilbo said, a little stupidly. "Funny sort of name for a flower," he said with a nervous little laugh, hoping for a smile from the blank-faced lord.

"The blossoms are down-turned," Celeborn said. "And while now they are a pale white, when wet, they are somewhat translucent. The tale told is of a gentle Maiden so struck by grief, the Valar themselves heard her cries, and by the magic of Nienna her tears turned to blossoms as they fell, in the hope that the beauty would lessen her sorrow."

"One would think she would know better," Bilbo said, quite without meaning to, and blushed when Celeborn raised one enquiring eyebrow at him. Well, at least his facial muscles had shifted somewhat. "Nienna, She Who Weeps. For a Valar that sorrows, surely she should know that a pretty trifle is no distraction from the grief of true loss."

"She does," Celeborn, and oh, look, the ghost of a somewhat-approving smile. "However, Nienna is also Valar of courage. She knows that sometimes, one merely needs a small sign of hope to find the courage to continue on."

Bilbo hummed an agreement, fingers ghosting over the mass of tiny white blooms.

"That I can understand," he said quietly.

"Do you?" Celeborn asked, back to intently studying him. Bilbo lips pursed, not entirely sure what to say to that, and settled on a strange shift of his shoulders that may have been a shrug.

"Don't we all," he said, when the Lord still seemed to be waiting for an answer.

Celeborn made a noise that was mostly a hum, but not really any sort of agreement, and settled in to watching him closely again. Bilbo turned back to the garden. While he primarily grew vegetables and herbs himself, he kept quite a few ornamentals for the pride of a lovely, well kept garden -mostly thriving well under Holman's expert hand- and Bilbo still knew his way around his garden well enough to marvel at the work of art that this garden was. There were so many blooms he knew absolutely nothing of, mixed with common perennials, and some rare annuals, even some ornamental vegetables used for colour, a planters paradise, it was. It would make more than a few Hobbit enthusiasts green with envy.

Quite near to Celeborn was a small patch of what Bilbo knew must be a variety of Lavender, judging by the delicate perfume, but the stalks were longer, the colour several shades lighter, and the tiny flowers along the stem more ruffled that any Shire variety he had ever seen. They were butted all about the base of a bed of tall, dark shrubs, and edged with a wonderful little flower that cheerily budded in many hues of white, pink and almost-blue, in single and double-headed blooms no bigger than his thumbnail. He wondered idly if Celeborn would let him take a cutting or seven.

"Why won't she....?" he trailed off, not meaning to ask the question, even as he was unsure as to what exactly he _was_ asking, and Celeborn shifted uneasily beside him, startling Bilbo in the odd show of discomfort. Still, he said nothing, and Bilbo sighed.

"We aren't here to, to.... We only wanted a little advice. I thought she might _know_. Know what to do." He sat back from the garden, folding his legs in front of him and regarding Celeborn solemnly from his place on the grass. "I don't know what to do," he told the elf, a lot more morosely than he had intended.

A dragonfly flitted through the air about his head, and he watched its progress, a great sense of weariness settling over him. His body might be young again, and while he wasn't as he was when he had died, his mind still felt somewhat tired out. Especially at times like this. When he felt like he was floundering along without grace or clear purpose.

"You are not what I expected," Celeborn said all of a sudden, eyes distant and troubled, shifting restlessly again. Quiet for a long time, though Bilbo knew he was searching for words and waited patiently.

"My Lady has ever been the epitome of glorious," he finally murmured, face twisting into a frown at odds with his words. "There is none fairer, or more good in their heart than my Lady. I have seen her weeping in sorrow and seen her righteous in fury, delighted in her smiles and her easy laughter, her gentle soul a balm for my own. She has been a strong and just leader of our people, a nurturing mother, a tender grandmother. A warrior, a defender of this earth, a staunch ally of light, friend to all of good soul, noble or humble. I never thought I would see her brought low."

The stalk of the flower he'd touched to admire almost bent under his tightening fingers, and Bilbo released it hastily, gulping loudly.

"I don't understand," Bilbo admitted hesitantly.

"I was prepared to dislike you, despite the seemingly noble goal of your quest. You carry great evil into my home, and you muddy the sight of my beloved. She finds no rest, and there is great fear in her that I have never seen before, a panic and a displacement in her view of the way of things. Hesitance, uncertainty. Doubt in herself. I should loathe you for it, have you driven from my woods."

"I..." Bilbo went to his feet, heart almost bursting from his chest from the sudden rush of fear. "Is it hurting her? Is the Ring hurting her? We... We must leave."

"She sees death," Celeborn said over him, talking almost as if Bilbo had not. "Death for all in infinite possibilities, and no future without darkness. This is deliberate. The future will not be tamed to her sight, an occurrence that never has happened upon her before. The loss of power is disconcerting. But," he finally looked at Bilbo, "the Ring hurts her not."

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said helplessly, but Celeborn simply shook his head ruefully.

"Apologise not for daring to defy evil and fight for the light of our world. You intend to destroy it, do you not?" He smiled then, at Bilbo's purposeful nod. "I wondered. Many have claimed so, but their hearts told otherwise. Yours does not. I can not fault you for seeking my Lady's advice and blessing for such a task."

"I am still sorry, for the sorrow it has brought your house," Bilbo said quietly.

Celeborn stared at him for a long time, still and silent as a statue.

"There is much guilt in you. Most unnecessary. My Lady is frightened, yes, uncertain. But the core of her is unyielding strength. She will find it in herself soon enough, and when she does, she shall seek you out. Rest a while. My home is your home."

"Sometimes guilt is well earned," he murmured quietly, turning away from the Lord when the Marchwarden Haldir appeared in front of him, looking absolutely furious. Judging by the sopping state of his clothing on this fine clear day, and the mud streaked up one side, the lads had not been gentle in their play.

"Oh dear," Bilbo sighed, surveying the poor elf. "Did they do that to your hair?" he asked, gesturing to the tangled knot on one side, some of the strands looking significantly shorter. And did Bilbo smell smoke?

Haldir said nothing.

"Well, we'd best get you cleaned up then, before you catch cold," he sighed, taking the elf's hand, "Or rather, the version of cold that you lot all claim is not possible because 'Elves do not get sick', even as you sneeze over innocent Hobbit's elevenses."

Haldir glared intensified, but Bilbo ignored him, and turned back to Celeborn.

"Lord Celeborn, I thank you for your time, and your conversation. Your garden is very beautiful. Do convey my warmest regards to your Lady." He sketched a deep bow, and then rose and tugged Haldir away, headed back out the garden.

"The guest wing is this way," Haldir said coldly, gesturing, and Bilbo shook his head. 

"You need warm dry clothing, and I can fix your hair. Your personal accommodations are where our feet shall take us, and you'd better point the way, else we could end up anywhere!" Bilbo said brightly, tugging the elf along.

Marchwarden Haldir said nothing for a time, letting Bilbo tug him along in random directions for a long time, before he sighed loudly.

"Left down here," he said begrudgingly, and let Bilbo steer them along to his short concise instructions.

Haldir actually had a lovely home high in a tree with balconies all around, breezy and spacious, the common area artfully sparse in the way Elves tended to favour, abruptly turning to surprisingly cluttered when Bilbo managed to bully Haldir into allowing him into the bedroom.

"Bit of a magpie, hmm?" Bilbo asked, terribly amused. Little bouquets and odd little colourful rocks abounded on every surface, as well as several potted plants and drawings of trees and mountains and people. Also, teacups. None of them seemed to match, a mishmash of hues and patterns, but they were all very pretty. And everywhere. Dozens of them. A few even had tiny plants growing from them.

"Oh, you are adorable," Bilbo said, trying hard not to gush when the elf turned pink and scowled, grumbling under his breath. "No wonder the lads wanted to braid you up as their own. Where's your tub, then?"

"They said it was a friendship braid," Haldir said, and the petulance was not adorable at all. Not in the slightest, nope. Bilbo went back to steering the elf into the bathing chamber. "There was a story, and then they said- and we were comparing styles of bows, and I slipped, and -they said it was a friendship braid."

"They let Talli do it, didn't they?" Bilbo more said than asked, setting the bath to run and wondering at it thoughtfully. His father had done the plumbing for Bag End, and had tried to explain the workings of it all to Bilbo, not that he had ever caught on. He'd thought it had something to do with water flowing downwards, but the concept of how they made water run _up_ a tree and into the bath was baffling.

"I am a Marchwarden of Lorien," Haldir fumed, and Bilbo nodded around the towels he was organising.

"Take off your clothes, Marchwarden," he said, and shoved the elf towards the bath.

"I am not to be treated thus," Haldir insisted, not seeming to notice that he was being so very obedient, even as he objected loudly.

"It is most definitely a friendship braid," Bilbo confirmed, shoving at the elf as he sat so he plummeted into the bubbles with a curse and a slapping splash. "But a lot of Rangers don't really braid, or care much about the care of hair at all, which is odd, considering how long and unkempt they let themselves get. Talli is learning, but hopeless. Very eager, though, I've been working several similar messes out of the boys' hair for weeks."

"Won't your husband disapprove of you helping another bathe?" Haldir asked testily, sticking his nose in the air, and Bilbo was sure he would object to being cooed at. The pout was adorable.

"If the lads have all but adopted you, that makes you all but one of our boys. Eru knows I need to spend a good portion of my day making sure they scrub behind their ears and combing the messes they call hair."

"I'm not a _child_ ," the elf cried, arms crossing over his chest, trying not to wince as Bilbo set to work in is hair, cringing with every little clump of hair that Bilbo worked loose of the knot.

"Are you sure?" Bilbo asked, slapping a cloth at the fully grown child, and carefully working the knot further apart. "You're acting like a child right now."

Haldir said nothing, swiping the cloth up and working at wiping away at the mud spattered all over himself. Bilbo winced when he worked a section of hair away that was most definitely singed a bit shorted.

"Do I want to know how fire came into play?" Bilbo asked, and grinned when Haldir's ears went very very red. "I see."

"Are you quite done?" Haldir asked snottily, but Bilbo ignored him, separating a little more out and working each of the strands smooth. He was getting quite efficient at sorting out messes like this. But then, even Thorin tended to let himself get a bit knotty at times. Bilbo was beyond pleased to see Thorin spending more time on his hair and his beard, which he had even let get a little longer in the last few weeks! The upkeep of hair was important to Dwarrows, and Thorin's personal care for himself spoke volumes. 

Bilbo did not mind assisting at that, either. Not at all.

"Not a terrible mess after all. I think that has done it," he finally murmured, reaching for the lovely carved brush on the stand and working it carefully through the lovely shining mane of hair. "You know, I think your hair may be even as pretty as Thranduil's? And he spends quite a time keeping his as spectacular as he can manage."

Haldir blushed again, but said nothing, and Bilbo handed across one of the lovely bottles of bath oil, and grabbed another to work through the hair, and then calmly set about weaving in the friendship braid that the lads had planned.

"You know," he said as he switched sides and worked a traditional Elvish braid down the opposite side of the head. The difference in braids would cover the fact that one braid was slightly shorter quite well. "The lads would be thrilled if you came to eat with them. And Kíli would love to spend some time learning some Elven archery. And you carry two blades, like Fíli, so I am sure he'd love to spend some time discussing the differences between Elven and Dwarvish styles. And Talli is interested in both, and must think you something special, if he managed to convince the lads to let him do the braids."

Haldir humphed loudly.

"Oh, you are determined that you are above things such as 'fun', aren't you? Well, that is just tough, isn't it. Dwalin will supervise, and probably Tratha and Halaron as well, and Thorin and myself. They won't pick on you so much then."

"I'm not- they didn't _pick_ on me-"

"Of course they did, but it was all in good fun. Testing you to see if you'd still like them if they were as chaotic as they can get. It's all right, though, they like you. Come along then, get dressed, and you can play a while before dinner."

Haldir spluttered, incoherent with rage, and Bilbo flitted from the room before he had a chance to calm himself enough to challenge Bilbo's bossiness. As it was, he could clearly hear the muttered Sindarin, occasional ranting, coming from the bathroom, and then bedroom, from where he had retreated to the seemingly sparse living area, that was not so sparse as Bilbo had first assumed- finding many hidden drawers and chests and nooks and even lovely wooden boxes placed neatly under chairs. It was more than a little heartbreaking to find that someone that seemed to delight in beauty in the smallest things spent so much effort to hide a love of the aesthetically pleasing from any potential visitors.

"Right, off we go," he said when the elf stalked fully dressed into the room, talking over the dismissive that was bound to make itself known, and grabbing at one hand, yanking him from the dwelling and across a lovely arched bridge to a walkway, chatting all the while. 

Aside from a little guidance in finding his way, Haldir stayed silent and stoic for the entire walk, not that Bilbo minded; the fellow'd had quite a rough day so far. No need to rub it in anymore. 

For now.

As expected, though, the lads were _still_ being berated, Thorin and Tratha were taking turns yelling at all three woebegone lads, lined up and sheepish. Bilbo wasn't exactly sure what Thorin was yelling, as he'd apparently reverted to Khuzdul, but it was scathing and reproachful enough in tone that Bilbo got the drift- as did Talli, as the boy shifted and sighed and hung his head even lower in tandem with the others.

"Honestly, Thorin, leave them be. They didn't _lose_ me."

"Where have you been?" Argus demanded, appearing from off to the side, Elrond bearing down at him from the other.

"Aggravating a host such as those who house us now, is not what one would call wise," Elrond said, frowning deeply.

Dwalin appeared and shoved the two of them out of his way before he could say a thing, rounding behind him to hold Bilbo still by the shoulders, apparently so Óin could approach and look him over closely.

"How could I possibly be injured?" Bilbo wondered, taking the simpler course of letting Óin do his examining.

"The lads came back caked in mud and soot!" Dori fussed, tapping his foot on the ground, arms crossed in front of himself and looking very much like Bilbo's mother did when he'd been out into mischief for the day. Bilbo wondered if he had noticed that he and Halaron had taken almost exactly the same stance and expression.

"I had nothing to do with that," Bilbo said solemnly. "I was talking with Lord Celeborn, that is all."

"He gave you an audience?" Thranduil demanded, appearing behind Elrond, those epic eyebrows high in his forehead with pure disbelief.

"Well, not so much gave me an audience-" he began, and squeaked in a most embarrassing way when Bifur appeared and picked him up by the scruff, carrying him the few short metres to drop him into Thorin's grateful arms. "- as my sneaking into his garden while he happened to be there," he finished with a wry grin, smoothing a hand down Thorin's face. Silly old git would always worry, it seemed to be part of the very nature of him. "I don't suppose anybody saved me some lunch?" he asked hopefully when his stomach growled loudly.

"You think we sat and calmly ate when it was apparent you were missing?" Balin demanded, and stalked off muttering. 

"I shall ring for the meal to be brought," Elrond said with a small glare he normally reserved for when Bilbo had done something to scare him. Old Bilbo, that was. Really, there was no reason for Elrond to be regarding him so, not with barely knowing him yet.

But then, he seemed to be getting a lot of glares from all sides, every single Dwarrow and Man gathered around in the little garden off their spacious tree apartments. And the elves. Sheesh. As one, they seemed to glare in aggravation at him and huff off, presumably to the small hall they had been taking their meals together in.

"Dear Bilbo, you are fast becoming one of the most entertaining creatures I have ever encountered," Gandalf mused, sitting off to the side and grinning about his ever-present pipe. "I cannot speak for the rest of your Company, Thorin, but I must tell you, I am having a most smashing time. Most fun I've had in years," he chuckled, taking himself off, singing to himself happily.

"That Wizard," Thorin sighed. "Well?"

"I think it's the time travel," Bilbo told him hurriedly, after a glance around the garden to ensure they had all left. "Celeborn says she can't _see_ the future anymore."

Thorin swore.

"We came here to seek the advice of the one who could _see the future!_ What good is this deviation then?"

"Celeborn implied- well. He did not say it, but I got the feeling he thought she would come to see us soon. And he thought it important we wait for that," Bilbo said with a sigh. Thorin raised one sceptical eyebrow and Bilbo shrugged. "He didn't say it at all, but I got the feeling he was thinking it." 

"You got the feeling. That he was.... thinking it?" Thorin asked, and then sighed, burying his face in his hands. 

"He knew of the Ring. Her sight can not be completely cut off, if he knows of it! She sent for Elrond, and she told Lord Celeborn our purpose here, when even Gandalf has been unaware."

Thorin hummed, staring off into the distance for a moment, mulling that over.

"Alright. I've followed you when you were even more vague as to your perception. Let's feed you, shall we?"

Bilbo hummed, but followed, turning the thought over in his head. Even knowing that Lady Galadriel had no insight to the future for them, no matter how frustrated he was to be stuck here for the moment, he was still certain that they were meant to stay until they talked with her. No matter how infuriating it was to wait.

Thorin must have sensed his mood, as he plonked Bilbo down in a corner, waved away all that wandered close, and fetched Bilbo a plate, not even causing any more fuss than a deep scowl when he noticed Haldir in the centre of the troublesome three, and Ori bouncing over to join in and chatter away at the elf excitedly.

Bilbo turned his attention to his meal, and ate carefully and slowly, head down and contemplating a lot of not really much at all for a long time, barely noticing when Thorin upped and left with Bilbo's empty plate, and came back with a tea service, merely accepting his cup and leaning into the warm steadiness that was Thorin, and watched the room descend into an impromptu party when Bofur pulled his pipe and Dwalin made his fiddle seem to appear out of nowhere, and a sing-song -and then rousing dance- ensued.

"He reminds me of me," Bilbo said suddenly, a long while later, curled into Thorin's side, and Thorin hummed enquiringly around his pipe, eyes on a strange slow, measured dance that Bifur was doing opposite of Glóin, the dance seeming more like a competition of control and deliberate movements than anything. "Haldir, he reminds me of myself," he said absently, turning his attention back to the lads in the corner, animatedly talking weapons, by the look of the drawings sketched across Ori's spread parchments. 

"How so?" Thorin asked after a moment, tightening his arm around Bilbo to draw him further into his warmth.

Bilbo shrugged but didn't reply for a long time. Instead, he watched the lads some more. After a while, the subject of their debate changed, Bilbo wasn't sure to what, and then changed again, and suddenly, Fíli, Kíli and Ori were attempting to teach Talli and Haldir a game involving a pile of polished stones on a hastily sketched grid, Ori slapping at hands and berating the lads when Thorin's nephews starting juggling the stones. Sometimes, it was easy to forget that Ori was quite a bit older than the other two, since his placid nature let them run roughshod a lot of the time. Woe betide them if they played up too much around him though, as he was forged in his brother's image, and turned into a miniature Dori complete with epic scolding and well-aimed smacks at the slightest provocation.

"Elrond told me once, that no matter how old a person gets, one is never too old to realise they've been behaving like a rash young fool. You'd think living past 130 years of age would make me a little wiser than the average Hobbit, but it really didn't."

"I am fairly certain I died a right foolish git, at the age of 190, and despite another 80 years of living on in the Halls of Mahal, my sister can still make me feel a child with a single look," Thorin mused drowsily.

"We should have brought her the first time," Bilbo agreed. He had only met her very briefly the last time, and only after Thorin and the boys were long gone. He was sure that prior to having the soul of her ripped away, she was a force to be reckoned with. "I can just see how well she would have tolerated you after we took Erebor."

"I wouldn't have died in battle, that's for sure," Thorin said with a wry grin. "She would have beaten me to death for my stupidity well before that."

Bilbo huffed, but said nothing. The frisson of panic and fear he normally experienced when his mind strayed to that awful event was a lot less than it was normally, and Bilbo let the jest at his husband's demise pass. What was done was done and all that tosh. 

It certainly helped that Azog was well and truly dead, now.

(Though he most _definitely_ had to deal with Bolg as soon as possible.)

"It took me a long time, after you died, to stop hating Hobbits," Bilbo admitted quietly. "I came home.... I was so lonely. So sad, so angry, all the time. And the Shire. It hadn't changed. Nothing had changed! My whole world had been torn asunder, and there were all my fellow Hobbits, fighting over my armchair and my dressing gown, and gossiping behind their hands, and I was _so angry_.

"They were petty in the face of all that had happened to me, to the ones I loved. And they were _happy_ with their mundane little unchanged lives, and it was _infuriating_. How dare they have their happiness when mine was gone forever? How dare they tut over the braids in my hair, or the fur of my coat, and then toddle on home to their loved ones in their warm smials and sleep well, when I was so very empty inside?"

Thorin tugged him closer still, practically into his lap, and buried his face into Bilbo's hair.

"I'm not angry anymore," Bilbo assured him, patting Thorin's knee. "I just realised how silly I was. I took all that resentment, and I sort of... spent eighty years living in defiance of the happiness and the disapproval of others. I went off on adventures whenever I wanted without a wick of notice to anyone, I was as rude as I wanted in the most polite and impolite ways, I played hide and seek with unwitting relatives who came looking for me, I slept late and threw gauche parties and revelled in starting odd rumours about myself. I had Dwarrows and Elves and Wizards as guests and never made any bones about it. I won't say it wasn't a good life, or that I took no satisfaction from it. I just have to wonder how much better it would have been, if I hadn't been busy feeling superior and pushing all my fellow Hobbits away."

Thorin snuffled into his curls a while longer, and Bilbo let him. 

"Where is this coming from?" Thorin asked finally, and Bilbo leaned back to rub his nose alongside Thorin's great honker.

"There is something about Haldir. I look at him and see somebody that keeps himself separate from the people around him. Like he is a devoted servant to this land, but not a part of it. I don't know," Bilbo shrugged, when Thorin moved far enough back to frown at him, "he seems so shocked that the boys want to play with him. Like he is not used to people wanting to spend time with him. I just recognise the look of him, and it reminds me of myself, among but not a part. It's not right."

Thorin sighed, long and loud and thumped his head back against the wall behind him. 

"An Elf? You want to add an Elf to my Company?"

"Well it was likely that we were going to be keeping Thranduil and his extras anyway... probably," Bilbo said. "Another one can't hurt."

"It _can_ hurt, it can hurt me in my very soul, Bilbo. Elves, part of the Company of Thorin Oakenshield? It's a travesty."

Bilbo rolled his eyes, and abruptly started to laugh, Thorin's ridiculous sorrowful expression becoming more and more ridiculously pouty the more Bilbo laughed.

He could have happily sat there and giggled with his stupid husband, and kissed that silly nose, and the pout right off his face, but for the group of sombre Elven guards that trekked into the small dining hall where they were gathered, the assembled Company -and extras- falling silent at the intrusion.

"Bilbo Baggins," the elf in the lead said sombrely. "My Lady will see you now."

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boring chapter? I promise, we're getting though some important stuff, and then... well. Soon, babes. Stuffs will happen.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. All Hobbit family names are canonical, though I have not the patience to suss out who lives where or when or who does what to be correct in my usage of said names. I think that Atho Bolger is an invention of mine to the Bolger family- for the nitpickers, Tolkien in interviews stated there was 5000 to 10 000 Hobbits at various times, yet there are only about a hundred or so named, so I can make up anyone I want. The Mrs Chubb here is the mother of Chica Chubb, the lass who married Bilbo's uncle Bingo, father of Falco Chubb-Baggins. And you really don't want to know what was going on with her blouse and the turnips. Let alone the fishing gear.


End file.
